chagrin

I've been under attack.

Yes, readers. You know what you've done. You all have me doubting my ability to read books by men. Sure, I might love Henry Fielding. And.... Shakespeare.... But I have a difficult time focusing on the finely-formed sentences of men.

Not all men, right? I really enjoyed Douglas Coupland and Nick Hornby in the last twelve months. But truly, my attention span is low -- take What is the What as an example. Excellent book, for sure, but I had to rush through the final three hundred pages in five hours Saturday night. I was up until 4 a.m. My eyes hurt. And I never, ever, felt any closer to the main character. Which is weird, because it was a fictionalized autobiography. Yet I felt there was a distance between me and him.

A failure on Eggers's part? I don't think so. A gender gap? Perhaps.

On this note, I am challenging myself to read more male authors. I've started with an easy one. D. H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover.

That's right. A formerly banned book. A book published decades after Lawrence's death. But if there is ever a way to move past the the gender gap, it must be through the rhetoric of inappropriate sex.

Oh dear.

Anyway, I'm already loving everything about Lawrence's matter-of-fact style. And I'm going to stop talking about this now. I think I'm blushing.

Example 1:

"Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen." (p. 1)

Example 2:

".... being a girl, one's whole dignity and meaning in life consisted in the achievement of an absolute, a perfect, a pure and noble freedom. What else did a girl's life mean? To shake off the old and sordid connections and subjections." (p. 3)

Example 3:

".... early in 1918 Clifford was shipped home smashed, and there was no child. And Sir Geoffrey died of chagrin." (p. 9)

drama

Don't worry, fair reader. I'm almost over my post-election trauma. I washed my hair today, managed not to cry over my Corn Pops, even made a little foray to the mall. I've almost put this all behind me. Forty-one per cent of us truly believe we will all be okay, and who can argue with that?

Okay, no, seriously, I'm getting over it. And so, I have to share an election win I can totally get behind.

In other news -- book related! -- What is the What has certainly picked up. I'm still not in love with it, though. It's odd.... on the one hand Eggers is a brilliant writer, his subject matter is fascinating and moving and certainly exciting. On the other hand, I keep falling asleep while reading the book. I can't explain it. As exciting as the story is, the prose is somehow extremely passive. I'm sure many people disagree with me on this.

I would like to share, though, a line I just love:

Humans are divided between those who can still look through the eyes of youth and those who cannot. (p. 116)

let's get it started

(Yes, I think I'm hilarious if I can title a blog in such a way as to leave a song stuck in your head, dear reader. How to get rid of the song, you ask? I suggest Yellow Submarine, of course. Or maybe Sarah Silverman, since you can find this virtually everywhere.)

So, I'm just 60 pages into What is the What, and I'm torn.

It's written so well, but somehow seems like a slow start. It's hard to call it a slow start when the main character is bound and robbed in his American apartment -- I'm not ruining anything for you, fellow book club members, as this happens in the first 10 pages -- but I really want to get to Africa. I want to get to what happens to the Sudanese Lost Boys, to the story. I'm feeling slightly sidelined by the main character's memories of his daydreams from when he was a child.

Also, every time I read the words "TV Boy," I think of "Sick Boy." And then I think of Ewan McGregor (but not, ironically, Jonny Lee Miller), and then I've lost focus altogether.

Where was I? What was I saying?

Hm. In other news....

• Alice Hoffman has a new book coming out this spring. This is very exciting. I love Hoffman; she can make a strawberry seem fascinating, mysterious and somehow ghostly. A summer's day, in her hands, is shadowed by danger. A clear night is a dream. The moon has power. I can't wait to read this.
• While I have given up on Jennifer Crusie's blog, I appreciate it when an author has a full list of upcoming projects.
• I can find nothing new on another favourite author, Ann-Marie MacDonald. This makes me sad.
• Quarterlife apparently did very poorly in its television premiere last week. I didn't watch it either, but that's mostly because I'm addicted to its internet presence. I was especially addicted during the writer's strike, but even now I tune in every Sunday and Thursday. Even if it's horrifically overdramatic at times. But I think the hero and heroine, Dylan and Eric, remind me so much of people I've known (and The Sweet Edge, actually) and been and mocked that I can't help but enjoy.

some thoughts from the edge....

• I fancy myself a chick flick connoisseur. That's right, connoisseur. I was thinking about my chick flick know-all last night when playing the Disney version of Scene It (lost it). But I hate, hate, hate Pretty Woman. (The channel formerly known as TBS is showing it ad nauseum today.) Modern-day Cinderella story, my ass. This is a story about a man who picks up a prostitute, and yes, she's pretty and Julia Roberts, but it completely skirts the actual issues of drug addiction and fear and sexual abuse that go hand-in-hand with the sex trade.
• The previous book club selection created a couple hours' worth of discussion today on what exactly feminism is, what it's place in our society is, etc. Apparently I am the only one who -- rather breathlessly -- feels Carol Shields has changed her life.
• The next book club book is What is the What, by Dave Eggers. Already started it. Love the language. Will update later.
• Still wallowing in pain. Thus, spent much of the evening re-reading Pride and Prejudice as security blanket.