Last night I finished reading Saint Patrick of Ireland, by Philip Freeman, and this evening I finished Alexander the Great: Journey to the End of the Earth, by Norman F. Cantor. It wasn't a deliberate attempt at comparison, just the order in which my requested library materials became available. I stumbled across Saint Patrick while actually browsing for the book on Alexander, which wasn't available at the library, and given that it's March, I thought it would be nice to do some further reading. And Alexander is so often mentioned in discussions regarding ancient history, but I recently realized that in spite, or perhaps because, of a very poorly made documentary I watched, I knew nothing about this man designated as "Great."
What struck me most about the Saint Patrick book was that the author really didn't say much about Patrick. By writing a book about him, he presumes to know quite a bit, but most of the book was phrased along the lines of "Patrick might have done _____ during _____ (insert a 50-year range)." It's nice to be honest and approach a subject cautiously, but if halfway through your research you realize you don't have enough substance to write a decent book with a reasonable amount of factual information, do your future readers a favor and give up for something more worthwhile. Don't just fill in the gaps with cheap shots at other historians much more entertaining than yourself. Yes, I am referring to the ever-popular Cahill, who write How the Irish Saved Civilization, because even though the premise of his book was a little off and the Irish didn't exactly "save civilization," it was such an absorbing read, and full of some great trivia. However, the one thing that came across very strong in Freeman's book was the translation of Patrick's Letters and Confession. His fervent zeal for the souls he was converting is refreshing, considering that the Christian church at the time was generally financially driven. For a man to seek an official position in the church not for temporal security or tax exemptions, but as the means of bringing the Gospel of Jesus Christ as he knew it to the nation that enslaved him in his youth, well, it's touching and inspiring. His love for the people he converted was so evident in his letters.
Alexander's biography was much more interesting, because the author stuck to facts throughout, only delving into speculation in the final chapter, in which he pondered the numerous ways Alexander had a lasting impact on the world—a legitimate activity, considering Alexander's empire, and six of the seven cities he formed and named after himself, collapsed almost immediately after his death at the young age of thirty-three. What was really cool is that I also just finished watching a six-part documentary on the history of India, and Alexander's conquest effectually ended there.
I'm not so sure about all this reading of ancient history. It's pretty horrible to contemplate that even the "Golden Age" of Classicism celebrated brutality and abuse in numerous forms, or at the least turned a blind eye on appalling social injustice. Men's rights were regularly trampled on, not to mention the fact that women and children had no recognizable rights at all. And they had some seriously gross rituals and customs. I might say something to the effect that it makes me grateful I live in a modern age, which would be unequivocally true, but it also gives me reason to ponder human nature and why societies end up with horrible traditions like the ones I've been reading. No specific answers yet.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Les Mis
Les Miserables is the best musical ever. Not objectively, really, but I think a lot of people would say it is. Its popularity is so overwhelming that even after it has closed multiple times on broadway, the public still loves it. I've been a fan ever since sophomore year of high school, when marching band did a very odd, cut up version of it on the field which, in retrospect, was very bad. I remember the announcer's proud statement that "Attack on Rue Plumet" depicts a famous battle in the French Revolution ... inward bleeding ensues, as that particular song is about a contemplated street robbery by a band of thugs, and the story itself has nothing whatsoever to do with the French Revolution. Well, it served its purpose. I checked out the Original Cast Recording from the library, read the libretto, learned all the real songs, read the unabridged novel the following year, and saw the stage tour the year following that (even in the nosebleeds, I cried buckets when Gavroche died). Beautiful story. Beautiful message. Beautiful, if loose, adaptation to stage.
This is why PBS aired yet another Les Miserables in Concert special recently. I saw the one they did fifteen or so years ago. Dad and I watched some of it last night, and now I need to say my piece so I can get over it.
First of all, I really wonder who was in charge and what they were on when they decided to cast Nick Jonas as Marius. I'm perfectly willing to have an open mind about the so-called talent of former Disney Channel stars, and I'm sure part of it was motivated by a desire to reach a younger, hipper audience, but it was hard to listen to even a few words come out of his mouth without cringing. And Eponine? It's possible she might be half American and half British, but there's no excuse to switch back and forth with the accent. I'm probably really hard on put-on accents. Back in college, a lovely production of "An Ideal Husband" was very nearly spoiled for me because whoever played Sir Robert couldn't do his accent right. But this Eponine had more than just an accent problem going against her. Her delivery was off, big time, and she had a Keira Knightly complex with her lips. The two of them muddling their way through Eponine's death scene got so painful we just skipped to the next song. Cosette was okay, I guess, and I know this is mean spirited, but when the girl who plays the beautiful damsel in distress looks like a blond-haired beaver it's a little distracting.
The big chorus parts were a trainwreck, particularly "One Day More," which is usually one of my favorites. I don't know exactly why it failed so miserably; something was off with the tempo and the different parts couldn't seem to balance right, but it was more than that.
The really puzzling thing was that as spot-off as so many of the parts were, three of the most important parts were spot-on. I've heard a lot of different Jean Valjeans, and most of them were quite good, but none of them were as good as this particular guy. His performance of "Bring Him Home" was practically flawless—such a sonorous voice, with beautiful delivery. And Javert, even though his recitative was a little delayed, had some serious power. He might have been better singing a bass part, but I still enjoyed him. Finally, Lea Salonga, who played Eponine the last time someone tried something like this, was re-cast as Fantine. And yup, she's still just as good as when she was Eponine, Mulan, Miss Saigon, and even Princess Jasmine. I love her.
It really makes me wonder. If Nick Jonas is the future of the stage musical ...
This is why PBS aired yet another Les Miserables in Concert special recently. I saw the one they did fifteen or so years ago. Dad and I watched some of it last night, and now I need to say my piece so I can get over it.
First of all, I really wonder who was in charge and what they were on when they decided to cast Nick Jonas as Marius. I'm perfectly willing to have an open mind about the so-called talent of former Disney Channel stars, and I'm sure part of it was motivated by a desire to reach a younger, hipper audience, but it was hard to listen to even a few words come out of his mouth without cringing. And Eponine? It's possible she might be half American and half British, but there's no excuse to switch back and forth with the accent. I'm probably really hard on put-on accents. Back in college, a lovely production of "An Ideal Husband" was very nearly spoiled for me because whoever played Sir Robert couldn't do his accent right. But this Eponine had more than just an accent problem going against her. Her delivery was off, big time, and she had a Keira Knightly complex with her lips. The two of them muddling their way through Eponine's death scene got so painful we just skipped to the next song. Cosette was okay, I guess, and I know this is mean spirited, but when the girl who plays the beautiful damsel in distress looks like a blond-haired beaver it's a little distracting.
The big chorus parts were a trainwreck, particularly "One Day More," which is usually one of my favorites. I don't know exactly why it failed so miserably; something was off with the tempo and the different parts couldn't seem to balance right, but it was more than that.
The really puzzling thing was that as spot-off as so many of the parts were, three of the most important parts were spot-on. I've heard a lot of different Jean Valjeans, and most of them were quite good, but none of them were as good as this particular guy. His performance of "Bring Him Home" was practically flawless—such a sonorous voice, with beautiful delivery. And Javert, even though his recitative was a little delayed, had some serious power. He might have been better singing a bass part, but I still enjoyed him. Finally, Lea Salonga, who played Eponine the last time someone tried something like this, was re-cast as Fantine. And yup, she's still just as good as when she was Eponine, Mulan, Miss Saigon, and even Princess Jasmine. I love her.
It really makes me wonder. If Nick Jonas is the future of the stage musical ...
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Born to Run
I just finished reading Born to Run, by Christopher McDougall. Wow!
Some people you meet are just really hard core, and this book was all about them. Except for excessive quotations of people dropping the f-bomb, I highly recommend it to everyone.
McDougall tells a meandering story that doesn't really even seem like a story because he goes off on so many tangents, but they all sort of tie together in the end—at a showdown race featuring some of the greatest distance runners of the Western hemisphere, in the middle of nowhere. He's a journalist and writes like a journalist (although his is of the magazine style, which still has creative integrity, as opposed to the newspaper style, which is really an anti-style): sensationalist, hyperbolic, and full of narrative cliché. In spite of it, and even because of it, I was completely absorbed from start to finish.
The major question he wanted answered from the start was really why so many doctors tell people that running is bad for them. He was an athlete who jumped from sport to sport and never encountered any problem until he attempted distance running. In search of a cure for the pain, he began to wonder if running really is so bad, why do some of the healthiest people in the world run so much and never get injured.
What's not to love about a book full of ultra-running anecdotes including barefoot running, vegan diets, beat poetry addicts, crack-pot scientists in search of the key to the reason humans have survived so successfully as a species, and Bushmen hunting parties; centered around a fighter who dropped out of time and memory for a life of solitary running all over the mountains and canyons of southern Mexico, scores of miles away from even a telephone?
It makes me want to go for extreme living. I thought I was pretty hot stuff for having run a marathon, but reading Born to Run has made me realize that a marathon is just ho-hum old news to these people. Last night, motivated by what I had read so far, I went for my very first run in my Vibram five finger toe shoes—I even went without my headphones, and didn't even miss them. People say when you run "barefoot" for the first time your calves get really sore, so I opted to do only a mile. I felt so great after a mile that I didn't want to quit. Alas, it was getting dark and I had told my brother that if I didn't return in less than 15 minutes he had to come looking for me. So I did one extra block and went in, but I'm so excited about those shoes!
And I'm excited to have new stuff to think about as a result of reading the book. Thank you, Heather, for the book recommendation. Stellar, as usual.
Some people you meet are just really hard core, and this book was all about them. Except for excessive quotations of people dropping the f-bomb, I highly recommend it to everyone.
McDougall tells a meandering story that doesn't really even seem like a story because he goes off on so many tangents, but they all sort of tie together in the end—at a showdown race featuring some of the greatest distance runners of the Western hemisphere, in the middle of nowhere. He's a journalist and writes like a journalist (although his is of the magazine style, which still has creative integrity, as opposed to the newspaper style, which is really an anti-style): sensationalist, hyperbolic, and full of narrative cliché. In spite of it, and even because of it, I was completely absorbed from start to finish.
The major question he wanted answered from the start was really why so many doctors tell people that running is bad for them. He was an athlete who jumped from sport to sport and never encountered any problem until he attempted distance running. In search of a cure for the pain, he began to wonder if running really is so bad, why do some of the healthiest people in the world run so much and never get injured.
What's not to love about a book full of ultra-running anecdotes including barefoot running, vegan diets, beat poetry addicts, crack-pot scientists in search of the key to the reason humans have survived so successfully as a species, and Bushmen hunting parties; centered around a fighter who dropped out of time and memory for a life of solitary running all over the mountains and canyons of southern Mexico, scores of miles away from even a telephone?
It makes me want to go for extreme living. I thought I was pretty hot stuff for having run a marathon, but reading Born to Run has made me realize that a marathon is just ho-hum old news to these people. Last night, motivated by what I had read so far, I went for my very first run in my Vibram five finger toe shoes—I even went without my headphones, and didn't even miss them. People say when you run "barefoot" for the first time your calves get really sore, so I opted to do only a mile. I felt so great after a mile that I didn't want to quit. Alas, it was getting dark and I had told my brother that if I didn't return in less than 15 minutes he had to come looking for me. So I did one extra block and went in, but I'm so excited about those shoes!
And I'm excited to have new stuff to think about as a result of reading the book. Thank you, Heather, for the book recommendation. Stellar, as usual.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Creepy
So last night a friend posted on Facebook that she wanted someone to go kayaking with her today. I was so there.
The unfortunate thing about having pulled off a feat like running a marathon is you start to think you're invincible or something. We took off in the kayaks on the lake. I was a little less than enthusiastic about the particular lake, given that it has a terrible reputation for being polluted and dirty and a dumping ground for all kinds of nasty things—as well as a habitat for alligators and poisonous snakes. However, my person was not actually going to be in the lake.
Well ...
Everything started out fine, I guess. I couldn't figure out why my kayak insisted on veering to the left the entire time, but I just used my buff muscles to keep it in check. It's kind of a windy day, but I love wind, and waves are pretty cool too.
We got pretty far out, and then found a little cove where the water was calm. That was actually when I started to get nervous, because we kept seeing little circles of bubbles, and both of us felt something (not a rock) bang against our oars at some point.
I was glad to be heading back, even though it was against the wind.
A heavy wind combined with a rather large wave, and this clumsy redhead fell into the lake. The middle of it. Nowhere near the shore. Actually, that was probably a good thing, as I didn't want to risk a run-in with any water moccasins or alligators.
Panic at a time like that can kind of paralyze you. The odd thing is I don't usually panic. Unless large bodies of water are involved. I'm steeling myself for the nightmares I'm going to have tonight. Okay, I take that back. I do panic. I remember beginning to panic last week when I thought for a moment a friend and I were stuck in an elevator. But not nearly as much as I panicked when I fell into the lake and started drowning.
I used to be enough of a swimmer to keep myself alive. I also used to float a lot more easily. I'm going to take that latter as proof that my body fat percentage has been drastically reduced.
The bottom line is, there I was in the middle of the lake, drowning. I don't know how one climbs back into a kayak in the middle of a lake, so I did what any reasonable person would do—I screamed for help. But I have one of those voices that don't carry. At all. When I used to want to get the attention of my middle school kids, I'd raise my pitch rather than my volume. You can't raise your pitch when you're drowning in a lake. After two or three attempts to call out to my friend, she turned back and saw that I was in the middle of the lake.
The only thing I could do was grab on to the back of her kayak, leave mine behind, and try to row back to shore. After about 30 minutes (during which I clung to a hook on the back of her kayak, floating on my back with my legs hooked around the back of it and desperately terrified I was either going to swallow some of the nasty lake water or be attacked by an alligator), we got to a place with a ladder up to a little dock. A really nice man gave us a ride back to where we parked.
Just a few more problems. First, I was going into hypothermia. I think. When my friend suggested that, I laughed, but apparently it's not a laughing matter. Even after a very hot shower and some dry clothes, my lips were blue and I couldn't stop shaking. Second problem, the kayak.
When it dumped me out, it also dumped my flip-flops. Can you imagine being a boater, going out onto the lake and seeing a tumped-over kayak and a pair of foam flip-flops? I'd be worried there was a body nearby. So the police were called, and they referred my friend to the Lake Patrol, who very kindly made sure everyone was okay then went out in their boat to fetch the abandoned kayak.
About the time she went to meet them and get it back, I had finally stopped shivering and relaxed enough to have some fruit snacks and watch Spirited Away.
I'm really looking forward to summertime, when the livin' is easy.
The unfortunate thing about having pulled off a feat like running a marathon is you start to think you're invincible or something. We took off in the kayaks on the lake. I was a little less than enthusiastic about the particular lake, given that it has a terrible reputation for being polluted and dirty and a dumping ground for all kinds of nasty things—as well as a habitat for alligators and poisonous snakes. However, my person was not actually going to be in the lake.
Well ...
Everything started out fine, I guess. I couldn't figure out why my kayak insisted on veering to the left the entire time, but I just used my buff muscles to keep it in check. It's kind of a windy day, but I love wind, and waves are pretty cool too.
We got pretty far out, and then found a little cove where the water was calm. That was actually when I started to get nervous, because we kept seeing little circles of bubbles, and both of us felt something (not a rock) bang against our oars at some point.
I was glad to be heading back, even though it was against the wind.
A heavy wind combined with a rather large wave, and this clumsy redhead fell into the lake. The middle of it. Nowhere near the shore. Actually, that was probably a good thing, as I didn't want to risk a run-in with any water moccasins or alligators.
Panic at a time like that can kind of paralyze you. The odd thing is I don't usually panic. Unless large bodies of water are involved. I'm steeling myself for the nightmares I'm going to have tonight. Okay, I take that back. I do panic. I remember beginning to panic last week when I thought for a moment a friend and I were stuck in an elevator. But not nearly as much as I panicked when I fell into the lake and started drowning.
I used to be enough of a swimmer to keep myself alive. I also used to float a lot more easily. I'm going to take that latter as proof that my body fat percentage has been drastically reduced.
The bottom line is, there I was in the middle of the lake, drowning. I don't know how one climbs back into a kayak in the middle of a lake, so I did what any reasonable person would do—I screamed for help. But I have one of those voices that don't carry. At all. When I used to want to get the attention of my middle school kids, I'd raise my pitch rather than my volume. You can't raise your pitch when you're drowning in a lake. After two or three attempts to call out to my friend, she turned back and saw that I was in the middle of the lake.
The only thing I could do was grab on to the back of her kayak, leave mine behind, and try to row back to shore. After about 30 minutes (during which I clung to a hook on the back of her kayak, floating on my back with my legs hooked around the back of it and desperately terrified I was either going to swallow some of the nasty lake water or be attacked by an alligator), we got to a place with a ladder up to a little dock. A really nice man gave us a ride back to where we parked.
Just a few more problems. First, I was going into hypothermia. I think. When my friend suggested that, I laughed, but apparently it's not a laughing matter. Even after a very hot shower and some dry clothes, my lips were blue and I couldn't stop shaking. Second problem, the kayak.
When it dumped me out, it also dumped my flip-flops. Can you imagine being a boater, going out onto the lake and seeing a tumped-over kayak and a pair of foam flip-flops? I'd be worried there was a body nearby. So the police were called, and they referred my friend to the Lake Patrol, who very kindly made sure everyone was okay then went out in their boat to fetch the abandoned kayak.
About the time she went to meet them and get it back, I had finally stopped shivering and relaxed enough to have some fruit snacks and watch Spirited Away.
I'm really looking forward to summertime, when the livin' is easy.
Monday, March 21, 2011
I Was A Fan
This morning, a great soul was put to rest, and he will be greatly mourned by his fans.
Because cats know that the only proper feeling a person should have for them is adoration.
My kitty died this morning, so I'm feeling sad. I'm resorting to a flippant blog post to keep the tears back. He was fifteen years old. I usually get really annoyed when people grieve in public over their pets; other people's beloved Fluffies and Barkleys and Harleys don't mean anything to me, and I always had a prideful sense of the superiority of my own pet. But I'm just like everybody else after all.
He hated kids and almost always bit them if they got within a few feet of him. He liked to make really unearthly yowls when he was in a room by himself. He treated my sister like he was her abusive boyfriend (he stalked her, got jealous of her friends, got vengeful when she didn't go to bed when he thought she should, and even threw up in her boyfriend's prom shoe out of spite). He wouldn't come when he was called, but he would come when he heard that characteristic rip of a string cheese being opened. His favorite place to sleep was in a basket of towels, straight out of the dryer. He had a strange thing for Crayola markers, and I will never forget having to explain to my history teacher that my cat ate my poster. In his later years, he became a lap cat, and he kept me company through a lot of graduate school assignments.
And I have enough kitty fur on my clothes to keep me from forgetting him for several years, just in case I ever would.
Because cats know that the only proper feeling a person should have for them is adoration.
My kitty died this morning, so I'm feeling sad. I'm resorting to a flippant blog post to keep the tears back. He was fifteen years old. I usually get really annoyed when people grieve in public over their pets; other people's beloved Fluffies and Barkleys and Harleys don't mean anything to me, and I always had a prideful sense of the superiority of my own pet. But I'm just like everybody else after all.
He hated kids and almost always bit them if they got within a few feet of him. He liked to make really unearthly yowls when he was in a room by himself. He treated my sister like he was her abusive boyfriend (he stalked her, got jealous of her friends, got vengeful when she didn't go to bed when he thought she should, and even threw up in her boyfriend's prom shoe out of spite). He wouldn't come when he was called, but he would come when he heard that characteristic rip of a string cheese being opened. His favorite place to sleep was in a basket of towels, straight out of the dryer. He had a strange thing for Crayola markers, and I will never forget having to explain to my history teacher that my cat ate my poster. In his later years, he became a lap cat, and he kept me company through a lot of graduate school assignments.And I have enough kitty fur on my clothes to keep me from forgetting him for several years, just in case I ever would.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Connections
I'm feeling a major let-down after running that marathon a while back. It's not the greatest thing for your mental energy to go from running 30+ miles every week to running zero. Or, in the case of this week, eleven. Poor me. I'm so out of shape.
Because I've been out every evening for one thing or another (gosh, this unemployment business is getting busier and busier!), I haven't cooked anything all week. So my best solution was to get my brother to help me make cookies. I thought it would be a good idea to add some marshmallows to an already yummy chocolate-peanut-buttery glob of stuff that's really not healthy.
Unfortunately, marshmallows make cookies go pfthththth ....
In Brother's immortal words, they look like bird turds.
But now we have this fabulous idea to crumble them up and mix them in with some homemade chocolate ice cream.Yes, there is a major reason why exercise must be a vital part of my life.
So, on to another subject. I don't generally think it's a good idea to write blog entries of this type, but I think this one will be okay. I hope it comes across in the spirit of fun and slight self-mockery I intend it to, as opposed to a package of whining. Few things are worse than people whose online presence consists of nothing but a whining pity-party.
First, I ask a question: isn't the whole point of having a closet to have a space where you can put all the stuff you don't want anyone to see?
I don't necessarily have skeletons in my closet, but I do have dirty gym clothes and a disorganized pile of odds and ends. It mystifies certain Rational family members that I don't really like it when people go in there; it has become a very emotional issue of late, as we have been undergoing quite a lot of home maintenance, and the only entrance to the attic is—you guessed it—through the ceiling of my closet.
It also happens that I have a lot of clothes that don't go in the dryer, and I had them hung up to dry on hangers in the closet doorway while I went for a brief trip out of town. Who should come over while I was gone, but our A/C guys? Not only did they remove my clothes in such a way that got them covered with attic mess, but the attic mess was all over the floor—not just in and around the closet.
Aaargh!
While I know it's no-one's particular fault, and no-one is specifically out to get me, I still felt violated. I went into the depths of despair and started feeling like a loser because I don't have a job and I just can't get my cover letter right.
What does not having a job have to do with the maintenance dudes messing up my closet and interrupting the drying of my clothes? Absolutely nothing.
Here's the point of this story. When I told my mother, she totally got it. No long drawn-out attempt to make sense of that connection was even necessary.
She is priceless.
Because I've been out every evening for one thing or another (gosh, this unemployment business is getting busier and busier!), I haven't cooked anything all week. So my best solution was to get my brother to help me make cookies. I thought it would be a good idea to add some marshmallows to an already yummy chocolate-peanut-buttery glob of stuff that's really not healthy.
Unfortunately, marshmallows make cookies go pfthththth ....
In Brother's immortal words, they look like bird turds.
But now we have this fabulous idea to crumble them up and mix them in with some homemade chocolate ice cream.Yes, there is a major reason why exercise must be a vital part of my life.
So, on to another subject. I don't generally think it's a good idea to write blog entries of this type, but I think this one will be okay. I hope it comes across in the spirit of fun and slight self-mockery I intend it to, as opposed to a package of whining. Few things are worse than people whose online presence consists of nothing but a whining pity-party.
First, I ask a question: isn't the whole point of having a closet to have a space where you can put all the stuff you don't want anyone to see?
I don't necessarily have skeletons in my closet, but I do have dirty gym clothes and a disorganized pile of odds and ends. It mystifies certain Rational family members that I don't really like it when people go in there; it has become a very emotional issue of late, as we have been undergoing quite a lot of home maintenance, and the only entrance to the attic is—you guessed it—through the ceiling of my closet.
It also happens that I have a lot of clothes that don't go in the dryer, and I had them hung up to dry on hangers in the closet doorway while I went for a brief trip out of town. Who should come over while I was gone, but our A/C guys? Not only did they remove my clothes in such a way that got them covered with attic mess, but the attic mess was all over the floor—not just in and around the closet.
Aaargh!
While I know it's no-one's particular fault, and no-one is specifically out to get me, I still felt violated. I went into the depths of despair and started feeling like a loser because I don't have a job and I just can't get my cover letter right.
What does not having a job have to do with the maintenance dudes messing up my closet and interrupting the drying of my clothes? Absolutely nothing.
Here's the point of this story. When I told my mother, she totally got it. No long drawn-out attempt to make sense of that connection was even necessary.
She is priceless.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
You look so ... so .... stoopud.
I read a comment on a blog one time about Jane Eyre, where the poster said something to the effect of, What's not to like about a story where two ugly people get together?
Indeed.
I'm sure I've written a review of Jane Eyre before, I just don't remember when or where. It might have even been on my blog. Perhaps the old blog that I deleted a few years ago. However, as many reviews as I've already written (in theory), I am going to write another one. Haters should stop reading here, because Jane Eyre is still my favorite book.
It must be admitted that I loved Jane Eyre at the age of fourteen because it was the first literary romance I ever read. I knew nothing of the story—nothing. A local bookstore was closing, and my parents were of the opinion that bookstores and libraries were capital places to spend Family Home Evening. I was perusing, and my mother held up a copy of the book that was to change my life forever. A Puffin Classic, with a purple cover and a picture of a rather gothic-looking mansion and a long-dressed, bonnet-clad girl in front of it. And stormy skies behind. Who could resist?
Well, probably a lot of people could have, but not this budding literary, sentimental mind of mine.
I took it home and proceeded to stay up all night reading it. Thus, the creation of a very bad habit I have yet to break ...
It was just so good. I got caught up in the suspense, not being of that class of people who figure out the ending of a story five minutes in and then just complain of its predictability throughout the rest of it. I suppose the story is pretty predictable, knowing what I know now and having read the book about twelve times.
What does predictability matter, though, when the story is full of such overblown passion? I didn't catch any of the allusions, as I was still largely unaware of them as literary devices in the first place. But it is peppered with talk of the most exciting stories from the Bible, from Greek myth, from Persian literature, and Shakespeare, and ancient history, and science, and folklore. Even at fourteen, I sensed class, even if I couldn't identify it.
So I've discussed in a little too much depth what I thought of it at fourteen. How do I justify cherishing such a passion for this washed-out, over-adapted piece of melodrama?
It's all in the characters, of course. As a reader is meant to, I identify with Jane. Not with being "poor, obscure, plain, and little" because I'm not exactly that, but with feeling a constant battle between what I ought to do and what I want to do. At one point, Rochester said Jane "mutinied against fate"—what an interesting concept. So many stories are built upon the idea of an inescapable fate, and it seems that Charlotte Brontë's entire aim was to prove that there is no such thing, and that fate and religion (or, in Victorian vernacular, "divine providence") are impossible to reconcile. Adherence to the laws of God frees the human soul from any oppressive fate a person might feel bound to.
What a character Rochester is. (On a side note, I am now dying to see the new movie. I used to think Toby Stephens was the most fabulous casting choice anyone could have made, but when I read the part where Jane is at Gateshead and lonely and bored and starts to sketch Rochester's face, she actually described none other than Michael Fassbender. I wonder if he'll be any good.) He's such a moral mess, but he somehow makes you like him anyway, because he never tries to hide the fact that he had a succession of three very wicked relationships with very stupid women; and he saw through the superficial pride and arrogance of people like Blanche Ingram. He always had good intentions—he was just too romantic and impulsive and gregarious to go without. It's interesting how little is said about his youth, etc. but you get the impression that he was very spoiled. He is, and he never forgets it. What I really like the best about him is that he is always willing to admit when he is wrong, and willing to make amends to people when he hurts them. I think his feelings and behavior towards Adèle made an impression on Jane—his insistence that the right thing to do would be to take responsibility for her and do what he could to make her happy and healthy, in spite of his dislike of her and his distaste for the memories she invokes. It is a stark contrast to how Jane's aunt Reed treated her when she was an unwanted, friendless orphan.
As for the much-neglected St. John Rivers, I had some very interesting insights as I read about him this time. I wonder—Jane decided that it would be just as wicked to counterfeit romantic love in order to marry someone for reasons of propriety as it would be to counterfeit marriage in order to have a romantic relationship. And St. John was much more manipulative than Rochester was; he would have married her so she could be part of his own glory and ambition, rather than for the honest belief that she would be happy with him. He used every trick in the book to get her to bend to his will, from playing on her insecurities about her personal appearance, to passive-aggressive silence, to twisting her own words to imply a promise she had not really given, to forceful, almost physically violent entreaty. Compared to him, Rochester really is kind and sweet. People are fascinating. I could imagine meeting people like that.
I could keep going, but I think I've written quite enough for the present. I'm glad, though, that I read it again and could rediscover its genius.
Indeed.
I'm sure I've written a review of Jane Eyre before, I just don't remember when or where. It might have even been on my blog. Perhaps the old blog that I deleted a few years ago. However, as many reviews as I've already written (in theory), I am going to write another one. Haters should stop reading here, because Jane Eyre is still my favorite book.
It must be admitted that I loved Jane Eyre at the age of fourteen because it was the first literary romance I ever read. I knew nothing of the story—nothing. A local bookstore was closing, and my parents were of the opinion that bookstores and libraries were capital places to spend Family Home Evening. I was perusing, and my mother held up a copy of the book that was to change my life forever. A Puffin Classic, with a purple cover and a picture of a rather gothic-looking mansion and a long-dressed, bonnet-clad girl in front of it. And stormy skies behind. Who could resist?
Well, probably a lot of people could have, but not this budding literary, sentimental mind of mine.
I took it home and proceeded to stay up all night reading it. Thus, the creation of a very bad habit I have yet to break ...
It was just so good. I got caught up in the suspense, not being of that class of people who figure out the ending of a story five minutes in and then just complain of its predictability throughout the rest of it. I suppose the story is pretty predictable, knowing what I know now and having read the book about twelve times.
What does predictability matter, though, when the story is full of such overblown passion? I didn't catch any of the allusions, as I was still largely unaware of them as literary devices in the first place. But it is peppered with talk of the most exciting stories from the Bible, from Greek myth, from Persian literature, and Shakespeare, and ancient history, and science, and folklore. Even at fourteen, I sensed class, even if I couldn't identify it.
So I've discussed in a little too much depth what I thought of it at fourteen. How do I justify cherishing such a passion for this washed-out, over-adapted piece of melodrama?
It's all in the characters, of course. As a reader is meant to, I identify with Jane. Not with being "poor, obscure, plain, and little" because I'm not exactly that, but with feeling a constant battle between what I ought to do and what I want to do. At one point, Rochester said Jane "mutinied against fate"—what an interesting concept. So many stories are built upon the idea of an inescapable fate, and it seems that Charlotte Brontë's entire aim was to prove that there is no such thing, and that fate and religion (or, in Victorian vernacular, "divine providence") are impossible to reconcile. Adherence to the laws of God frees the human soul from any oppressive fate a person might feel bound to.
What a character Rochester is. (On a side note, I am now dying to see the new movie. I used to think Toby Stephens was the most fabulous casting choice anyone could have made, but when I read the part where Jane is at Gateshead and lonely and bored and starts to sketch Rochester's face, she actually described none other than Michael Fassbender. I wonder if he'll be any good.) He's such a moral mess, but he somehow makes you like him anyway, because he never tries to hide the fact that he had a succession of three very wicked relationships with very stupid women; and he saw through the superficial pride and arrogance of people like Blanche Ingram. He always had good intentions—he was just too romantic and impulsive and gregarious to go without. It's interesting how little is said about his youth, etc. but you get the impression that he was very spoiled. He is, and he never forgets it. What I really like the best about him is that he is always willing to admit when he is wrong, and willing to make amends to people when he hurts them. I think his feelings and behavior towards Adèle made an impression on Jane—his insistence that the right thing to do would be to take responsibility for her and do what he could to make her happy and healthy, in spite of his dislike of her and his distaste for the memories she invokes. It is a stark contrast to how Jane's aunt Reed treated her when she was an unwanted, friendless orphan.
As for the much-neglected St. John Rivers, I had some very interesting insights as I read about him this time. I wonder—Jane decided that it would be just as wicked to counterfeit romantic love in order to marry someone for reasons of propriety as it would be to counterfeit marriage in order to have a romantic relationship. And St. John was much more manipulative than Rochester was; he would have married her so she could be part of his own glory and ambition, rather than for the honest belief that she would be happy with him. He used every trick in the book to get her to bend to his will, from playing on her insecurities about her personal appearance, to passive-aggressive silence, to twisting her own words to imply a promise she had not really given, to forceful, almost physically violent entreaty. Compared to him, Rochester really is kind and sweet. People are fascinating. I could imagine meeting people like that.
I could keep going, but I think I've written quite enough for the present. I'm glad, though, that I read it again and could rediscover its genius.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Comfort Books
I blog about comfort books a lot. Today was a comfort book day. I'm not sure why.
While reading my email, I came across Goodreads' Jane Eyre challenge, and I tried to enter it, but it wouldn't let me. Then I started thinking about how much I might really want to see the movie when it comes out next weekend, so I looked it up. Of course it's only limited release, so if I want to see it I will have to go to the Angelika.
And then I realized that it's been years since I read the book. I just love that book. I thought I had moved past it, but I think I will just accept here and now that whenever I start to think I've moved past something, whether it be a personal tendency or behavior, or an infatuation with a book, I rarely truly move on.
Reading Jane Eyre for the twelfth (?: I lost count around nine, so this is an approximation) time is just as tumultuous and intense as it was the first time! I got about 1/3 through and put it down because it's just so overwhelming. It's not the comfort book I really needed.
Now, here is a comfort book:
While reading my email, I came across Goodreads' Jane Eyre challenge, and I tried to enter it, but it wouldn't let me. Then I started thinking about how much I might really want to see the movie when it comes out next weekend, so I looked it up. Of course it's only limited release, so if I want to see it I will have to go to the Angelika.
And then I realized that it's been years since I read the book. I just love that book. I thought I had moved past it, but I think I will just accept here and now that whenever I start to think I've moved past something, whether it be a personal tendency or behavior, or an infatuation with a book, I rarely truly move on.
Reading Jane Eyre for the twelfth (?: I lost count around nine, so this is an approximation) time is just as tumultuous and intense as it was the first time! I got about 1/3 through and put it down because it's just so overwhelming. It's not the comfort book I really needed.
Now, here is a comfort book:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)