I was in Pisa when the craving set in again. I had just finished my last David Sedaris book and was itching for a new read.
However I am a rather fussy reader, selecting my books primarily based on a mysterious tug I feel towards a particular novel, author or theme; a spontaneous curiosity that arrives out of the blue and which can only be satisfied by hunting down this particular book and devouring it in a few days. Nothing else will do until I have that particular book that is on my mind. I am known during this period of obsession to become a rather irritating shopping companion, endlessly pouncing into any bookstores I come across promising to the friends I drag along that I will be 'Just a second, I just want a quick look!' When I cannot find what I want I am not disheartened in the normal sense. Instead the longer the delay is in finding my particular novel the more I am enamored with the idea of reading it. I enjoy this chase so thoroughly that I even set harder goals for myself, deciding I only want a second-hand copy, and I cannot settle for a certain edition with a cover I disprove of. I am pretty much a madwoman.
One night soon after the craving began the children were thankfully dozing on the couch as my hostess sat curled up watching Italian tv. The Godfather part I came on and once again I was blown away not only by Al Pacino's incredibly beautiful face but by the emotional pull of the film. The sheer curiosity factor had set in and before I knew it I had decided what my next read would be. I simply had to read The Godfather by Mario Puzio. I was in Italy and everything, it was the perfect choice!
So, as a book addict does, I planned my next day around attaining this novel. I got up early in the morning when there was still a purple glow to the garden and took the bus to the local station and then the train to Florence. I dozed on and off during the trip as my train window was slowly heated cozily by the rising Tuscan sun.
Arriving in Florence was a wonderful feeling because by this stage of my trip my unhappiness with my situation in Pisa was definitely settling in. It was the first taste of freedom I had had in quite a few weeks. I ended up getting a delicious cheese, truffle honey and truffle cream sandwich, and a piece of orange cake for breakfast (as you do when in Florence) and then strolled along the beautiful streets, the Ponte Vecchio, and ducked into any shops that took my fancy. By shops that took my fancy I mean Zara...
I finished off my day out leaving the best for last. On the way back to the station I went inside a huge bookshop and found an english copy of the Godfather. While waiting to be served at the counter something very strange happened. The nearly empty store was disturbed by the noisy entrance of an haggard elderly man, dressed in a day suit worn by men two generations ago. Despite the fact the shop assistant was already in the middle of serving someone and that I was clearly next to be served the man strode right up to the counter, dropped both his hands onto the counter with slap and declared in loud heavily Italian accented English: 'I need The Godfather by Mario Puzio but in Italian.' There was something so abrupt about his entrance and the way he delivered his demand that the customer in front of me, the shop assistant and I, all stood staring at him for a few seconds not really knowing how to handle the situation. The assistant gave him cautious directions to where he could find a copy in the store and he strode away with the same almost panicked determination. But why he spoke english when he was Italian and in an Italian bookstore I still do not know.
As he strode way I looked down at the copy in my hands and thought to myself 'It's an omen! This is the right book to be reading right now!' I felt like a cog in a very strange fate machine. Maybe this man had watched film last night as well, and had been just as moved as I. I left Florence in awe of the influence of literature and film basically combusting with excitement to begin reading.
However my actual reading of The Godfather proved less invigorating as its purchase. I had heard several times from different sources that The Godfather is one of those rare situations where the film far outshines the book. I can say now after having finished the book that this is true and that I totally agreed with Coppola's editing decisions; which story lines he chose to film and which one's he chose to leave in the pages of the book.
I agreed with Coppola almost to the extent that I wondered at times, maybe a bit harshly, what on earth Puzio was thinking when he wrote the book...or more so what his editors were thinking when they were combing through his manuscripts. To me it felt like Puzio began the book as a way of exploring Mafia warfare and customs during the 1940s, but as he did so fell in love with certain characters and could not let them go, despite damaging the coherency and flow of the main narrative.
Two characters he could not let go of were Johnny Fontane (Who makes me think of Frank Sinatra...anyone else??) and Lucy Mancini. And frankly I found their storylines irrelevant almost to the point of boring and confounding. My conclusion is that 40% of The Godfather is written well, and that percentage is very engaging and very informative...but the other percent. that is not written well, those hearty chunks simply verge on the irritating.
First of all, the Johnny Fontane storyline:
Full of trysts, male sexual escapades, sexpot women using their bodies as a form of power, and a burnt out Hollywood star lamenting his damaged vocal chords, Fontane's storyline had no real contribution to the advancement of the main plot of the novel. The subjects of this storyline were clearly meant to be racy and scintillating, but the blatant sexism and pulp fiction sex irritated me because I couldn't find a way to justify it narrative-wise.
Furthermore with the Fontane storyline there was something off in Puzio's tone, something insincere. I could never quite grasp where Puzio sat on the omniscient author scale. I just couldn't pinpoint what he was trying to say or achieve by being so pointed and indulgent when it came to all matters involving females and sex. My first theory was that he was just getting really into trying to accurately portray 1940s sexism, to in fact make a statement about the sexism of the time by being so aggressive in his handling of it. But that didn't seen right either when I realized some of the language didn't fit in with the time he was trying to recreate...it was too....70s. If the lingo had been more 40s that would have removed the sexism and placed it in another time, as if to say 'this was how it was back then.' After all this book was published post-women's lib. Instead the vague indecisive tone only lent the story line a seedy indulgent tone that as a (progressive) female, more than anything else, I simply found irritating and unecessary to read.
To me Puzio's story was already fascinating enough without having to throw in what appeared to be a bunch of cheap thrills. It frustrated me to watch him try and 'sex-up' a novel that being about the complexities of mafia relationships and power struggles, depended so much on subtlety. Maybe this was to do with his editors who just wanted to 'spice' the story up, break the politics up with sex or something...Maybe Puzio didn't understand the potential of his novel to surpass the pulp ficiton standard and therefore he was lax about his own personal editing...he wrote a trashy novel not realising what absolute jems it contained, or its cinematic potential.
But what I found ten times more bizarre was the Lucy Mancini storyline:
All I know was that I had just finished Part V on a gripping cliff-hanger: The Corleone's had to work out a way to bring back Michael who had run off to Siciliy after shooting Sollozzo and Captain McCluskey. I turned the page into Part VI and suddenly found myself in the middle of the incredibly bizarre chapter dedicated, and I am not even joking, solely to discussing the problems with Lucy Mancini's vagina.
Lucy Mancini is sad because her lover Sonny Corleone is dead and he was the only man able to make her orgasm. Puzio goes into great depth, explaining over 25 pages that the reason for Lucy's unhappy love life is because she in fact has a weak pelvic floor, resulting in a vagina with too much space to create the necessary friction, a genuine medical condition. Lucy goes on to have an operation to fix her pelvic floor and the chapter finishes with her being able to enjoy sex again. By the time I finished the chapter I wondered what the hell had happened to The Godfather and why the hell was I reading a book that spends 25 pages describing this female characters vagina. I got so bored and by this directionless chapter that I put the book aside for many weeks, only continuing once I had left Pisa and was well and truly into my two month stay in Genova.
And I am not joking about his going into excessive depth. For example the following reads like a one of my old highschool biology textbooks:
'The technique of any operation to strengthen the pelvic floor required the accomplishment of two objectives. The musculofibrous pelvic sling had to be shortened so that the slack was taken up. And of course the vaginal opening, the weak spot itself in the pelvic floor, had to be brought forward, brought under the pubic arch and so relieved from the line of direct pressure above. Repairing the pelvic sling was called perincorrhaphy. Suturing the vaginal wall was called colporrhaphy.'
...Ok great. But how does this in anyway relate to how they are going to bring Michael back home from Sicily?? And what about the Don, is he going to reclaim his power?? But now, here we are, talking almost in boring depth about Lucy Mancini's vagina. The only useful thing this chapter achieved was to inform the reader about the character change of 'Fredo' in Las Vegas which becomes more important only in the second book.. It is hardly likely the chapter was written for such a purpose anyway, despite it's importance, because Fredo is only referenced a handful of times, almost as a 'btw kind of memo.'
Also again I just could not tell by Puzio's tone what he was hoping to achieve with that chapter....was he simply fascinated by 1940s surgery and thought this little story might prove to be authentic in recreating the time...did his editors once again tell him to slip in a little more sex? But that doesn't explain why Puzio then goes into tedious detail about female genital surgery because that isn't exactly sexy...it is just science.
Or am I being too hard on Puzio? Is he actually a secret feminist, breaking down myths about female sexuality? Was he simply trying to be an informative prophet for his own generation of readers, to warn them about the perils of having a weak pelvic floor!? Is he a sympathiser of all unsatisfied women?? The chapter to clarify isn't vulgar, and I don't oppose to the content because it isn't exactly indulgent as Puzio clearly sympathizes with Lucy. And as I said it isn't even really that racy. But my main qualm is: So what is the point of it??
I only have one other theory and it is a really weird one, a kooky Conspiracy theory. At the beginning of the book Puzio introduces Sonny Corleone as a man who not only has a temper but has a huge penis. Jokes about his massive genitals are scattered throughout the first chapter of the book culminating in him and Lucy Mancini having a fling at Connie's wedding.
This is when the thought occurred to me. Sonny with the over-sized penis is the only man who could satisfy Lucy with the over-sized vagina. Suddenly it has become a chicken and the egg scenario. What came first in Puzio's mind as he wrote his novel. Sonny's penis or Lucy's vagina?? What character came first?? Did he create the character Sonny only to aid his exploration of 1940s female genital reconstructive surgery and unfulfilled sexuality as a result of a conservative and patriarchal society???! Because frankly Lucy gets more in-depth character study then Sonny! I cannot even believe I am writing this. Too weird. This has become a gender studies essay...is Mario Puzio a feminist?? Why is he so obsessed with the irrelevant character of Lucy and her weak pelvic floor??
So in short I can't help but wonder whether Puzio, if asked, could justify these certain passages, or whether he would now admit he was still refining his narrative style at the time of writing the book, thus it simply shows some of that trial and error process. In any case the book was an interesting experience that was for sure.
Showing posts with label For the love of books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label For the love of books. Show all posts
Tuesday, 3 June 2014
Sunday, 30 March 2014
How A Bad Day In London Transformed Me Into David Sedaris' New Publicist
I should probably write to David Sedaris and thank him for making me his new official publicist. It is not exactly official, but I think it may as well be.
It seems my keen readers ears are not as good as my keen readers eyes because despite his success and regular presence on bestseller lists I can only remember catching references to Sedaris' work a handful of times. Once in the car a radio interview was being conducted with Sedaris but this was ages ago, possibly years. But I still remember the instanteous smile he put on my face when he spoke about how his soft lilting voice is often mistaken to be female when talking on the phone.
Strangely enough I have seen his book 'Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk' on the shelves of many Italian book shops in the english section. I always gave it a tentative look, not quite sure why it was ringing a bell...'that funny guy I once heard of maybe, probably wrote it..might be a good book...but this is all too vague for me to make an informed decision...'
I finally gathered the momentum to buy 'Dress Your Family in Cuduroy and Denim' when I was in London a few weeks ago The purchase came about during a moment of extreme vulnerability.
My day began in Bloomsbury, the purpose was to visit the Britsh Museum but the experience proved to be somewhat anti-climactic. I have heard for so many years about how amazing it is that this became a case where the reality was left with no choice but to wilt in comparison to the imaginings. The journey around the gigantuan building had a checklist feel about it, because to my surprise there were no surprises! Everything I had been told was there....the Pantheon Marbles, the sensational Egyptian collection, etc,...as I encountered each item I had been told to look out for, my attempts to engage with it were thwarted by the apearance of a mental Tick symbol, comically large and green, lighting up with a ping noise. Maybe these items I had busted my gut studying at high school were triggering some negative mood associations... Maybe I was just very tired that day.
After the museum I resumed my second favourite activity in foreign countries, eating. With the first being spending money, I am a dangerous commodity. Mostly to myself. While I munched away on Pret A Manger yoghurt and museli I flipped through my guide book only to realise that Bloomsbury did not hold as much interest as I had predicted the night before.
I became annoyingly indecisive, umm-ing and ahh-ing about everything my little Travel London book suggested. By the time I decided to visit the Charles Dickens Museum and had actually managed to find it, it was late afternoon. Soon things would be shutting. I was wasting my day...
After I then quite illogically decided to get to the Borough Markets, which involved a long bus trip followed by an even longer walk due to me getting off two stops early. Once I got there though I was a very happy camper. I would go back to the markets another two times before the end of my trip. I tucked into a delicious piece of Banoffee pie, feeling so incredibly British in a Love-Actually-wannabee-Keira-knightley sort of way. I hoped maybe with the success of the markets I had made ammends with my indecision.
It was only once I was heading over London Bridge, feeling wonderful and Bridget-Jonsey, that I realised with a jolt that 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' was no longer lodged under my arm. I had borrowed the copy from my cousin's book shelf that morning and been reading it throughout the day. I only had one chapter left.
As is typical of me I went into full panic mode. If my house was to burn down I can honestly promise to be uber calm throughout the occasion, taking charge, giving orders even making tea for distressed passersby. If however something relatively minor happens on the scale of life and death, such as losing a coat, forgetting an appointment...I am inconsolable. If I lose an item belonging to someone else I seriously contemplate running away to Cuba. I filed a lost property report for the book at the markets reception with the desperation of a mother who has lost a child in a crowd and moped my way back across the bridge, now feeling like Bridget but in all the bad ways.
After making it halfway on foot to the tower of london and realising that it was 4pm and it would be closed. So I backtracked and made my way through cheapside, feeling Elizabeth-Bennetty, to St. Pauls Cathedral. I stopped along the way in a few shops, taking my time. I was just leaving a shopping complex when the cathedral came into full view. I reached for my camera in my bag...my hand rummaged around, finding lipglosses, bus tickets, a hair brush, water bottle, coin purses...no camera. My breathing became rapid and I muttered 'stay calm, stay calm, stay calm' like an incantation. I emptied my bag straight onto the pavement as shoppers stared.
I slumped against a glass wall, all my belongings spread around me... everything except for my camera. My camera with a 32 gigabyte SD card containing 4 months worth of travel photos.
A female police cyclist passing by with her bike noticed me and when we made eye contact there must have been something very pathetic about my face because she came right over and bent down next to me.
"Hello dear, is everything ok?"
My bottom lip literally wobbled and I started bawling like a child. I told her the whole tale in hysterical blubberings, starting from the point when I lost my cousin's book. She was so nice throughout my ranting. So sympathetic, nodding knowingly, a kind grimace of solidarity here and there...she even told me a story about how she recently lost an important set of keys and how angry she was with herself. She then asked me my name and told me her's was Elise. She took down all the details of what happened and gave me the number of the station she worked at so I could call in to see if the camera had been found and handed in. She encouraged me to retrace my steps in the meantime.
"But Elise, is there even any point?!" I groaned, fed up with the cruel, cruel world, aka my own chronic absentmindedness. She told me it wouldn't hurt.
I thanked her profusely and followed her advice. All I can say is thank god I did because I had only left my camera on the counter of the most recent shop I had been in. The sales assisstant 'aww-ed' when I was clasped the camera to my breast and I cried sloppy completely indulgent tears of relief, disturbing londoners trying to buy stationery. I headed onwards to St. Pauls, still relieved and weepy when I ran into Elise again! She was on her bike and told me she was been circling around hoping to see me and ask if I had had any luck. She was so happy for me I had found my camera and in that moment I really just wanted to hug her. I thanked her again a hundred times, not only for her help but for her understanding.
It was at the end of this day, of highs and lows, that I decided I needed only one thing to calm me down and that was to buy a good book. I took a bus to Angel Islington and quickly found a discount book supplier. I bought another copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower to replace the one I went and lost on my cousin, and then perused the shelves for something that would cheer me up and make me laugh. That's when I found 'Dress Your Family'. It wasn't as cheap as I would have liked, but oh man, was it worth every cent.
It was on the bus back to my cousin's house in East London as I started reading that my new voluntary work as David Sedaris' publicist began. Since then I have laughed on buses, planes, trains; in baths, kitchens, beds, cafes, and parks. Once I had laughed my way through 'Dress Your Family In Curduroy and Denim' I scoured the Oxfams of London for more second-hand Sedaris books, finding 'Me Talk Pretty One Day,' 'When You Are Engulfed In Flames' and 'Barrell Fever,' so I could laugh my way through those.
I feel my greatest publicist work for Sedaris happened on the public transport system of London. I was on the double-decker bus heading to Oxford Circus and basically busting my lungs trying not to cry with laughter as I read 'Dress Your Family'. I was so immersed in Sedaris' hilarious piece on cultural differences called 'Six to Eight Black Men' that I jumped when the lady sitting in front of me said 'Excuse me?' I immediately assumed she was going to ask me to shut up or had mistaken my laughter for crying. But instead with eagerness she asked me what I was reading. She was so curious about what could make me laugh so much she just had to know! With relief and surprise I handed her the book so she could read the blurb, and praised it to high heaven. She thanked me saying she had been looking for a funny book to read and immediately began downloading it on her kobo.
My second publicity stunt occured when heading to Borough Markets on the underground tube. I didn't have a seat in the packed carriage but didn't mind because Sedaris once again was making me laugh myself silly. So silly I suspected that in that moment for all the Londoners sharing my carriage I was the 'typical loon' on their train that day. I read with the book held high over my face like a mask to hide my silent giggling but my shoulders which remained exposed still shook with laughter. Just before my stop I lowered my book to find the middle-aged couple standing opposite starring and smiling at me. 'Good book then??' the man asked, genuinely interested. I chuckled and told him was it ever! They laughed, asked to see the cover which I obliged and said they would look out for it, wishing me a very nice day as I stepped out of the carriage onto the platform.
Since London I have continued reading Sedaris in Italy. I am older and wiser now though, aware that if I read this one as quickly as I did the others then very soon I will finish it and the addictive joy will be over. I am still in the last chapter now of 'When You Are Engulfed In Flames' which I started three weeks ago and still preaching the virtues of his attractive self-deprecation, dazzling observation skills and the delicious way he handles irony.
Sure Sedaris isn't exactly up with the times, he is in fact quite a dork. So if you are looking for the musings of someone you can relate to by age and interest this is maybe not for you. But this is also what I like about Sedaris, he never proclaimed to be cool. His honesty about his own sexuality and oddballness, his hilarious portraits of his quirky family and friends, the wonderful one-line observations about the world, and his ability to always to wrap up his stories with an elegant bow, drawing the important facts together to make a satisfying final message, in my opinion makes him a very entertaining and neat writer.
So everyone go and read Sedaris now, particulary if you are in need of a good career change.
It seems my keen readers ears are not as good as my keen readers eyes because despite his success and regular presence on bestseller lists I can only remember catching references to Sedaris' work a handful of times. Once in the car a radio interview was being conducted with Sedaris but this was ages ago, possibly years. But I still remember the instanteous smile he put on my face when he spoke about how his soft lilting voice is often mistaken to be female when talking on the phone.
Strangely enough I have seen his book 'Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk' on the shelves of many Italian book shops in the english section. I always gave it a tentative look, not quite sure why it was ringing a bell...'that funny guy I once heard of maybe, probably wrote it..might be a good book...but this is all too vague for me to make an informed decision...'
I finally gathered the momentum to buy 'Dress Your Family in Cuduroy and Denim' when I was in London a few weeks ago The purchase came about during a moment of extreme vulnerability.
My day began in Bloomsbury, the purpose was to visit the Britsh Museum but the experience proved to be somewhat anti-climactic. I have heard for so many years about how amazing it is that this became a case where the reality was left with no choice but to wilt in comparison to the imaginings. The journey around the gigantuan building had a checklist feel about it, because to my surprise there were no surprises! Everything I had been told was there....the Pantheon Marbles, the sensational Egyptian collection, etc,...as I encountered each item I had been told to look out for, my attempts to engage with it were thwarted by the apearance of a mental Tick symbol, comically large and green, lighting up with a ping noise. Maybe these items I had busted my gut studying at high school were triggering some negative mood associations... Maybe I was just very tired that day.
After the museum I resumed my second favourite activity in foreign countries, eating. With the first being spending money, I am a dangerous commodity. Mostly to myself. While I munched away on Pret A Manger yoghurt and museli I flipped through my guide book only to realise that Bloomsbury did not hold as much interest as I had predicted the night before.
I became annoyingly indecisive, umm-ing and ahh-ing about everything my little Travel London book suggested. By the time I decided to visit the Charles Dickens Museum and had actually managed to find it, it was late afternoon. Soon things would be shutting. I was wasting my day...
After I then quite illogically decided to get to the Borough Markets, which involved a long bus trip followed by an even longer walk due to me getting off two stops early. Once I got there though I was a very happy camper. I would go back to the markets another two times before the end of my trip. I tucked into a delicious piece of Banoffee pie, feeling so incredibly British in a Love-Actually-wannabee-Keira-knightley sort of way. I hoped maybe with the success of the markets I had made ammends with my indecision.
It was only once I was heading over London Bridge, feeling wonderful and Bridget-Jonsey, that I realised with a jolt that 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' was no longer lodged under my arm. I had borrowed the copy from my cousin's book shelf that morning and been reading it throughout the day. I only had one chapter left.
As is typical of me I went into full panic mode. If my house was to burn down I can honestly promise to be uber calm throughout the occasion, taking charge, giving orders even making tea for distressed passersby. If however something relatively minor happens on the scale of life and death, such as losing a coat, forgetting an appointment...I am inconsolable. If I lose an item belonging to someone else I seriously contemplate running away to Cuba. I filed a lost property report for the book at the markets reception with the desperation of a mother who has lost a child in a crowd and moped my way back across the bridge, now feeling like Bridget but in all the bad ways.
After making it halfway on foot to the tower of london and realising that it was 4pm and it would be closed. So I backtracked and made my way through cheapside, feeling Elizabeth-Bennetty, to St. Pauls Cathedral. I stopped along the way in a few shops, taking my time. I was just leaving a shopping complex when the cathedral came into full view. I reached for my camera in my bag...my hand rummaged around, finding lipglosses, bus tickets, a hair brush, water bottle, coin purses...no camera. My breathing became rapid and I muttered 'stay calm, stay calm, stay calm' like an incantation. I emptied my bag straight onto the pavement as shoppers stared.
I slumped against a glass wall, all my belongings spread around me... everything except for my camera. My camera with a 32 gigabyte SD card containing 4 months worth of travel photos.
A female police cyclist passing by with her bike noticed me and when we made eye contact there must have been something very pathetic about my face because she came right over and bent down next to me.
"Hello dear, is everything ok?"
My bottom lip literally wobbled and I started bawling like a child. I told her the whole tale in hysterical blubberings, starting from the point when I lost my cousin's book. She was so nice throughout my ranting. So sympathetic, nodding knowingly, a kind grimace of solidarity here and there...she even told me a story about how she recently lost an important set of keys and how angry she was with herself. She then asked me my name and told me her's was Elise. She took down all the details of what happened and gave me the number of the station she worked at so I could call in to see if the camera had been found and handed in. She encouraged me to retrace my steps in the meantime.
"But Elise, is there even any point?!" I groaned, fed up with the cruel, cruel world, aka my own chronic absentmindedness. She told me it wouldn't hurt.
I thanked her profusely and followed her advice. All I can say is thank god I did because I had only left my camera on the counter of the most recent shop I had been in. The sales assisstant 'aww-ed' when I was clasped the camera to my breast and I cried sloppy completely indulgent tears of relief, disturbing londoners trying to buy stationery. I headed onwards to St. Pauls, still relieved and weepy when I ran into Elise again! She was on her bike and told me she was been circling around hoping to see me and ask if I had had any luck. She was so happy for me I had found my camera and in that moment I really just wanted to hug her. I thanked her again a hundred times, not only for her help but for her understanding.
It was at the end of this day, of highs and lows, that I decided I needed only one thing to calm me down and that was to buy a good book. I took a bus to Angel Islington and quickly found a discount book supplier. I bought another copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower to replace the one I went and lost on my cousin, and then perused the shelves for something that would cheer me up and make me laugh. That's when I found 'Dress Your Family'. It wasn't as cheap as I would have liked, but oh man, was it worth every cent.
It was on the bus back to my cousin's house in East London as I started reading that my new voluntary work as David Sedaris' publicist began. Since then I have laughed on buses, planes, trains; in baths, kitchens, beds, cafes, and parks. Once I had laughed my way through 'Dress Your Family In Curduroy and Denim' I scoured the Oxfams of London for more second-hand Sedaris books, finding 'Me Talk Pretty One Day,' 'When You Are Engulfed In Flames' and 'Barrell Fever,' so I could laugh my way through those.
I feel my greatest publicist work for Sedaris happened on the public transport system of London. I was on the double-decker bus heading to Oxford Circus and basically busting my lungs trying not to cry with laughter as I read 'Dress Your Family'. I was so immersed in Sedaris' hilarious piece on cultural differences called 'Six to Eight Black Men' that I jumped when the lady sitting in front of me said 'Excuse me?' I immediately assumed she was going to ask me to shut up or had mistaken my laughter for crying. But instead with eagerness she asked me what I was reading. She was so curious about what could make me laugh so much she just had to know! With relief and surprise I handed her the book so she could read the blurb, and praised it to high heaven. She thanked me saying she had been looking for a funny book to read and immediately began downloading it on her kobo.
My second publicity stunt occured when heading to Borough Markets on the underground tube. I didn't have a seat in the packed carriage but didn't mind because Sedaris once again was making me laugh myself silly. So silly I suspected that in that moment for all the Londoners sharing my carriage I was the 'typical loon' on their train that day. I read with the book held high over my face like a mask to hide my silent giggling but my shoulders which remained exposed still shook with laughter. Just before my stop I lowered my book to find the middle-aged couple standing opposite starring and smiling at me. 'Good book then??' the man asked, genuinely interested. I chuckled and told him was it ever! They laughed, asked to see the cover which I obliged and said they would look out for it, wishing me a very nice day as I stepped out of the carriage onto the platform.
Since London I have continued reading Sedaris in Italy. I am older and wiser now though, aware that if I read this one as quickly as I did the others then very soon I will finish it and the addictive joy will be over. I am still in the last chapter now of 'When You Are Engulfed In Flames' which I started three weeks ago and still preaching the virtues of his attractive self-deprecation, dazzling observation skills and the delicious way he handles irony.
Sure Sedaris isn't exactly up with the times, he is in fact quite a dork. So if you are looking for the musings of someone you can relate to by age and interest this is maybe not for you. But this is also what I like about Sedaris, he never proclaimed to be cool. His honesty about his own sexuality and oddballness, his hilarious portraits of his quirky family and friends, the wonderful one-line observations about the world, and his ability to always to wrap up his stories with an elegant bow, drawing the important facts together to make a satisfying final message, in my opinion makes him a very entertaining and neat writer.
So everyone go and read Sedaris now, particulary if you are in need of a good career change.
Thursday, 27 February 2014
Madame Bovary, or should I say Madame Boring: The Art of Knowing When to Give Up and Stop Reading a Bad Book.
What to do when you read a book you just really don't like. To continue, or not to continue....
I am currently stuck in this debate because of my current read: Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. It is a hard call to make because I think both paths have their pros and cons.
Reasons to finish the book:
1. Just because you don't enjoy it does not mean that it is 'bad' or that you cannot learn something from it, whether this is literary experience or life experience. If anything it is useful to ocasionally read a 'bad' book, because it just further helps us exemplify what characteristics make a 'good' book. An example I would use here is the Twilight series. Ok, not such great books, in fact I would go so far so to say they are quite apalling (first book is passable, all following, no, just no). However they do make fantastic reading when it comes to honing your own understanding of what constitutes effective characterisation and plot, simply because it is so obviously absent from the series. It is highlighted perfectly.
2. Conquering a hard or slow book does wonders for your reading abilities in my opinion. The discipline and committment required to get used to or perservere with a difficult writing style can be applied to other pieces of writing you have wanted to read but saw as previously too advanced. I always find the book I read after a particulary hard slog is absolutely effortless. It can also set me on a roll, giving me the momentum to read several books in quick succession.
3. Whenever the book is discussed, you can say you have read it and contribute to that conversation. Your negative opinion can be valuable and provide an interesting viewpoint.
4. You won't be haunted by the book sitting forever on your shelf, glaring at you, making you feel like some kind of failure
5. It won't be a waste of your money (if it was expensive that is).
Reasons not to finish the book:
1. Sometimes it is a matter of reading the wrong book at the right time. I personally see each book has having a 'difficulty level' and am willing to acknowledge when maybe I am not at the level to fully appreciate it yet. Everyone's 'difficulty ratings' are based on different factors. For me Moby Dick and Middlemarch will have to wait for a little while. Although brilliant, the sheer density of the language made it hard for me to get through. I will come back to them once I have levelled up.
2. Give it a second chance. So put it down and come back to it in a few books time. I remember Jo Napoli's Daughter of Venice was like this. I just could not get past the first few pages. It bored me. So I left it for a year and came back to it. Second time can be the charm. Don't give up yet, always give it a second chance.
2. Sometimes a book is just...bad and we hate reading it. As long as we can explain why the book enraged us so and learn from this, sometimes it can be ok to put a book down. I know this is going to make me super unpopular with some people, but a book I have done this with is John Green's Looking for Alaska. I just couldn't do it. That said I think John Green is a total cutie and a clever guy. I just cannot handle his prose or storylines. At all. When I put that down I felt a relief I cannot describe. Some books, we will find, are just impossible for us to connect with, even if others have been able to. Everyone and every book is different.
3. Life is short! Let's be epicurean and enjoy ourselves! Why waste time ploughing through a heavy boring text when we could be reading something wonderful! Give it up, move on! Who cares it cost you over $30 from an overpriced bookshop! Go out! Buy another one!
Back to Flaubert. Madame Bovary is proving to be a combination of many of the feelings I have described above. In short, I am not digging it. Not at all. Strangely enough the best way I can decribe my experience of reading the book is by likening it to the Sims3.
So Sims 2 was awesome. It was a hyper-reality, where things were real enough to be plausible, aka, the sims body features, their jobs etc. but also contained elements such as aliens to make things 'kooky' and engaging. To make reality more interesting. A zany reality.
Then along came Sims3. I was so excited for it but upon testing it out I was bitterly disappointed. It was so realistic...it was just boring. Why would I want to escape from ordinary life by playing a PC version of ordinary life? There was nothing engaging or relaxing about the hard slog of balancing my sims work, life and family of the sims 3....in fact things were even more complicated than in Sims 2, everything from eating to making friends, to getting a promotion required more effort to achieve and yet the achievements themselves when acquired seemed less rewarding somehow. And to my chagrin, there were no aliens or 'kooky' elements to speak of. What even was the point anymore? This was no longer a hyper-reality, it was just another reality I wanted to seek respite from. It was too close to home and lacking that crucial element that made Sims 2 so entertaining: the critical element, the sense of irony one could feel inserted into the game by its makers. They were having a laugh at real-life by emphasising many of it's silliest moments in the game itself. It was humorous, ironic and wacky. These reflections made it insightful regarding how society views marriage, cheating, having boyfriends and girlfriends, failing school.
Madame Bovary, a classic piece of literary realism, is the more along the lines of Sims 3 for me. While I think Flaubert successfully achieves his goal to be as objectively realistic as possible, the result is a bizarrely stilted and dry piece of work. I guess maybe I was thrown off by it's modesty as I won't lie, I was hoping for a Lady Chatterly's Lover kinda work. But no. For a text of literary realism is is surprisngly modest, and although candid, not at all engaging or insightful. Hardly scandalous.
Emma is a realistic character, and yes so is her husband Charles Bovary. This is not the problem, it is that Flaubert writes about them with such little perspective or personal contribution from himself regarding what HE think of the characters or even what he wants US to think of the characters. Devoid of any creative flair, they almost seem like boring neighbours next door. Why do I want to know anything about them? Why should I care that Emma is bored stiff and her husband is a mediocre bore? Flaubert does not seem to critique his characters, and I find that deeply troubling from the perspective of someone trying to enjoy his work.
In a way I do believe this is a testament to Flaubert's ability to pierce the heart of reality....maybe I just don't want reality. Or maybe at the end of the day if I want to read about reality, I want it to be a more insightful reality then the one presented in this novel, or at least more different or exotic from my own. It is not Flaubert's fault he chose rural France and a bored housewife as his novels plot foundations. Maybe some people find this really fascinating. They must or else why is the novel still read and referenced so often. Why is it stocked amongst the classics? Historically speaking the story would have been considered highly interesting, even disturbing, at the time it was published. It must havee been shocking to read something so candid, completely without artificice to smooth over the taboo or socially unnaceptable sections. I also think these foundations have the potential to be very interesting, after all I would read a story about a cactus plant named Harold if I thought it was well written. I think the problem here is the literary genre of realism, and further more Flaubert's execution of it.
Even when being he does venture into descriptive territory Flaubert falls short of creating anything vivid for me, like a beautiful scene or even an ugly scene. He always seems instead in his stripped back style to be simply listing objects present rather than engaging with them and describing them for me to visualise, for example:
'The garden, longer than wide, ran between two mud walls with esapliered apricots, to a hawthorn hedge that separated it from the field. In the middle was a slate sundial on a brick pedestal; four flower beds with eglantines surrounded symetrically the more useful kitchen garden bed.'
This is a lovely list, but what of the garden Flaubert?? Does this array of features make it pretty in your opinion? Ugly? Why should I care that this is how the garden looks? To use an analogy to summarise my argument: I do not look at a piece of art simply to validate its existence, but to draw from it some kind of meaning or to experience some kind of emotional response. Here though Flaubert's objectivism devoid of any kind of opinion or reflection is resulting in only one thing from me: boredom.
If this is his style, should I bother continuing? I obviously don't get realism in literature...I find it articulate but dry and without insight or reflection. So, continue, or not? At this stage the only reason I would want to read it is to be immersed in the experience that is literary realism, to familiarise myself with this style and then hopefully in doing so learn something valuable about the history of literature as a whole. But is it worth it? When I find it so dull?
Only time will tell. Maybe I should start Hardy's A Pair of Blue Eyes, and try again after that. Take the 'give it a second chance' course of action. After all it has worked before.
I am currently stuck in this debate because of my current read: Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. It is a hard call to make because I think both paths have their pros and cons.
Reasons to finish the book:
1. Just because you don't enjoy it does not mean that it is 'bad' or that you cannot learn something from it, whether this is literary experience or life experience. If anything it is useful to ocasionally read a 'bad' book, because it just further helps us exemplify what characteristics make a 'good' book. An example I would use here is the Twilight series. Ok, not such great books, in fact I would go so far so to say they are quite apalling (first book is passable, all following, no, just no). However they do make fantastic reading when it comes to honing your own understanding of what constitutes effective characterisation and plot, simply because it is so obviously absent from the series. It is highlighted perfectly.
2. Conquering a hard or slow book does wonders for your reading abilities in my opinion. The discipline and committment required to get used to or perservere with a difficult writing style can be applied to other pieces of writing you have wanted to read but saw as previously too advanced. I always find the book I read after a particulary hard slog is absolutely effortless. It can also set me on a roll, giving me the momentum to read several books in quick succession.
3. Whenever the book is discussed, you can say you have read it and contribute to that conversation. Your negative opinion can be valuable and provide an interesting viewpoint.
4. You won't be haunted by the book sitting forever on your shelf, glaring at you, making you feel like some kind of failure
5. It won't be a waste of your money (if it was expensive that is).
Reasons not to finish the book:
1. Sometimes it is a matter of reading the wrong book at the right time. I personally see each book has having a 'difficulty level' and am willing to acknowledge when maybe I am not at the level to fully appreciate it yet. Everyone's 'difficulty ratings' are based on different factors. For me Moby Dick and Middlemarch will have to wait for a little while. Although brilliant, the sheer density of the language made it hard for me to get through. I will come back to them once I have levelled up.
2. Give it a second chance. So put it down and come back to it in a few books time. I remember Jo Napoli's Daughter of Venice was like this. I just could not get past the first few pages. It bored me. So I left it for a year and came back to it. Second time can be the charm. Don't give up yet, always give it a second chance.
2. Sometimes a book is just...bad and we hate reading it. As long as we can explain why the book enraged us so and learn from this, sometimes it can be ok to put a book down. I know this is going to make me super unpopular with some people, but a book I have done this with is John Green's Looking for Alaska. I just couldn't do it. That said I think John Green is a total cutie and a clever guy. I just cannot handle his prose or storylines. At all. When I put that down I felt a relief I cannot describe. Some books, we will find, are just impossible for us to connect with, even if others have been able to. Everyone and every book is different.
3. Life is short! Let's be epicurean and enjoy ourselves! Why waste time ploughing through a heavy boring text when we could be reading something wonderful! Give it up, move on! Who cares it cost you over $30 from an overpriced bookshop! Go out! Buy another one!
Back to Flaubert. Madame Bovary is proving to be a combination of many of the feelings I have described above. In short, I am not digging it. Not at all. Strangely enough the best way I can decribe my experience of reading the book is by likening it to the Sims3.
So Sims 2 was awesome. It was a hyper-reality, where things were real enough to be plausible, aka, the sims body features, their jobs etc. but also contained elements such as aliens to make things 'kooky' and engaging. To make reality more interesting. A zany reality.
Then along came Sims3. I was so excited for it but upon testing it out I was bitterly disappointed. It was so realistic...it was just boring. Why would I want to escape from ordinary life by playing a PC version of ordinary life? There was nothing engaging or relaxing about the hard slog of balancing my sims work, life and family of the sims 3....in fact things were even more complicated than in Sims 2, everything from eating to making friends, to getting a promotion required more effort to achieve and yet the achievements themselves when acquired seemed less rewarding somehow. And to my chagrin, there were no aliens or 'kooky' elements to speak of. What even was the point anymore? This was no longer a hyper-reality, it was just another reality I wanted to seek respite from. It was too close to home and lacking that crucial element that made Sims 2 so entertaining: the critical element, the sense of irony one could feel inserted into the game by its makers. They were having a laugh at real-life by emphasising many of it's silliest moments in the game itself. It was humorous, ironic and wacky. These reflections made it insightful regarding how society views marriage, cheating, having boyfriends and girlfriends, failing school.
Madame Bovary, a classic piece of literary realism, is the more along the lines of Sims 3 for me. While I think Flaubert successfully achieves his goal to be as objectively realistic as possible, the result is a bizarrely stilted and dry piece of work. I guess maybe I was thrown off by it's modesty as I won't lie, I was hoping for a Lady Chatterly's Lover kinda work. But no. For a text of literary realism is is surprisngly modest, and although candid, not at all engaging or insightful. Hardly scandalous.
Emma is a realistic character, and yes so is her husband Charles Bovary. This is not the problem, it is that Flaubert writes about them with such little perspective or personal contribution from himself regarding what HE think of the characters or even what he wants US to think of the characters. Devoid of any creative flair, they almost seem like boring neighbours next door. Why do I want to know anything about them? Why should I care that Emma is bored stiff and her husband is a mediocre bore? Flaubert does not seem to critique his characters, and I find that deeply troubling from the perspective of someone trying to enjoy his work.
In a way I do believe this is a testament to Flaubert's ability to pierce the heart of reality....maybe I just don't want reality. Or maybe at the end of the day if I want to read about reality, I want it to be a more insightful reality then the one presented in this novel, or at least more different or exotic from my own. It is not Flaubert's fault he chose rural France and a bored housewife as his novels plot foundations. Maybe some people find this really fascinating. They must or else why is the novel still read and referenced so often. Why is it stocked amongst the classics? Historically speaking the story would have been considered highly interesting, even disturbing, at the time it was published. It must havee been shocking to read something so candid, completely without artificice to smooth over the taboo or socially unnaceptable sections. I also think these foundations have the potential to be very interesting, after all I would read a story about a cactus plant named Harold if I thought it was well written. I think the problem here is the literary genre of realism, and further more Flaubert's execution of it.
Even when being he does venture into descriptive territory Flaubert falls short of creating anything vivid for me, like a beautiful scene or even an ugly scene. He always seems instead in his stripped back style to be simply listing objects present rather than engaging with them and describing them for me to visualise, for example:
'The garden, longer than wide, ran between two mud walls with esapliered apricots, to a hawthorn hedge that separated it from the field. In the middle was a slate sundial on a brick pedestal; four flower beds with eglantines surrounded symetrically the more useful kitchen garden bed.'
This is a lovely list, but what of the garden Flaubert?? Does this array of features make it pretty in your opinion? Ugly? Why should I care that this is how the garden looks? To use an analogy to summarise my argument: I do not look at a piece of art simply to validate its existence, but to draw from it some kind of meaning or to experience some kind of emotional response. Here though Flaubert's objectivism devoid of any kind of opinion or reflection is resulting in only one thing from me: boredom.
If this is his style, should I bother continuing? I obviously don't get realism in literature...I find it articulate but dry and without insight or reflection. So, continue, or not? At this stage the only reason I would want to read it is to be immersed in the experience that is literary realism, to familiarise myself with this style and then hopefully in doing so learn something valuable about the history of literature as a whole. But is it worth it? When I find it so dull?
Only time will tell. Maybe I should start Hardy's A Pair of Blue Eyes, and try again after that. Take the 'give it a second chance' course of action. After all it has worked before.
Friday, 21 February 2014
Books and Reading while travelling: A Cautionary tale of addiction
I have always had a problem with books. In the sense that I tend to buy and collect books faster than I can read them. I currently have 4 bookshelves in my room and despite pleas from friends and family I have no intention of curbing my growing library. I am in fact determined to transform my room into a mini version of the library from Beauty and the Beast.
The trip began hopefully. For the first month I didn't buy a single book and only read 2: a biography on Marilyn Monroe and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes lent to me by a friend.
It wasn't until Argentina when I had enough leisure time (no longer being on the tight schedule of a tour) that I could return to indulging my addiction. I bought One Hundred Years of Solitude and Madame Bovary in Buenos Aires and would have bought more if it wasn't for the wise advice of my two travel friends who thought starting a travelling suitcase version of the Beauty and the Beast library was a terrible, terrible idea.
However I experienced a severe relapse in Italy. From Rome to Bologna there was not a single bookshop safe from my raging compulsion to acquire excessive amounts of literature. My loyal travel companion at this stage, knowing what was best for me, tried reasoning with me, appealing to my hatred of carrying around heavy luggage, even simply saying 'No' and walking me out of the shop.
Her greatest successes were stopping me from buying $70 AUD worth of literature in Bologna. Among the picks were The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Of Mice and Men and I think a Michael Ondaatjee.
After raiding the surprisingly good book exchange shelves at our hostel in Milan, she also managed to convince me not to 'adopt' The Beach, On the Road and Heroes and Villains by Angela Carter (which I had never heard about and was super intrigued by!! I must find another copy again..). Seeing my despair though she allowed me to take the Angela Carter upstairs to 'look at it.' I believe I slept with it under my pillow that night.
Despite the intimacy the book and I shared that night, I did have a rare moment of clairty and when we left the next day I had the strength to leave it behind.
That said this moment of clarity came a bit too late. Soon after whilst checking funds I had a cold hard wake up call and a refreshingly pragmatic email from my father informing me that I had no money left. I had not even left Italy. I was supposed to travel EUROPE. Not only was I disappointed and shocked but I was annoyed I was disappointed and shocked. Of course I had run out of money. I am an addict and addictions are expensive especially when the aussie dollar is worth a pittance of the Euro.
So, as always it was a book that catalysed a revelation, in the sense that I had to come to terms with the fact that I couldn't travel to half the places I wanted to in Europe because I had speent too much money on books?! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Inthe city of debauchery, Amsterdam, my addiction sunk to new levels. I fought the impulse to the best of my ability for the first three days...but even though I knew it was wrong, and that I really had no excuses left now, I caved in. Feeling sheepish and before I could really question what I was doing I found out from my hotel reception where the nearest second hand bookshop was that stocked english copies, was there within 5 minutes (turned out to be around the corner it was too near to pass up) and 30 mins later I emerged with Stephen King's The Shining and A Pair of Blue Eyes by Thomas Hardy.
To be fair it couldn't possibly have been books that broke the bank. What forced me into bankruptcy in Europe was indulgence. But even I, an addict who flits beetween denial and acceptance, can acknowledge that for me indulgence and books go hand in hand...probably always will.
The only other thing I can imagine I have spent as much on would be museum entries. Oh and croissants.
Books bought overseas:
The Book Thief
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Of Mice and Men
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Madame Bovary
The Shining
A Pair of Blue Eyes
Book on the history of the Medici Family
A french phrase book
Other books accumulated but not bought:
A Clockwork Orange
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Wallpaper Guide to Paris
Biography of Marilyn Monroe (actually this one was brought from home, purchased in Canberra)
The trip began hopefully. For the first month I didn't buy a single book and only read 2: a biography on Marilyn Monroe and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes lent to me by a friend.
It wasn't until Argentina when I had enough leisure time (no longer being on the tight schedule of a tour) that I could return to indulging my addiction. I bought One Hundred Years of Solitude and Madame Bovary in Buenos Aires and would have bought more if it wasn't for the wise advice of my two travel friends who thought starting a travelling suitcase version of the Beauty and the Beast library was a terrible, terrible idea.
However I experienced a severe relapse in Italy. From Rome to Bologna there was not a single bookshop safe from my raging compulsion to acquire excessive amounts of literature. My loyal travel companion at this stage, knowing what was best for me, tried reasoning with me, appealing to my hatred of carrying around heavy luggage, even simply saying 'No' and walking me out of the shop.
Her greatest successes were stopping me from buying $70 AUD worth of literature in Bologna. Among the picks were The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Of Mice and Men and I think a Michael Ondaatjee.
After raiding the surprisingly good book exchange shelves at our hostel in Milan, she also managed to convince me not to 'adopt' The Beach, On the Road and Heroes and Villains by Angela Carter (which I had never heard about and was super intrigued by!! I must find another copy again..). Seeing my despair though she allowed me to take the Angela Carter upstairs to 'look at it.' I believe I slept with it under my pillow that night.
Despite the intimacy the book and I shared that night, I did have a rare moment of clairty and when we left the next day I had the strength to leave it behind.
That said this moment of clarity came a bit too late. Soon after whilst checking funds I had a cold hard wake up call and a refreshingly pragmatic email from my father informing me that I had no money left. I had not even left Italy. I was supposed to travel EUROPE. Not only was I disappointed and shocked but I was annoyed I was disappointed and shocked. Of course I had run out of money. I am an addict and addictions are expensive especially when the aussie dollar is worth a pittance of the Euro.
So, as always it was a book that catalysed a revelation, in the sense that I had to come to terms with the fact that I couldn't travel to half the places I wanted to in Europe because I had speent too much money on books?! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Inthe city of debauchery, Amsterdam, my addiction sunk to new levels. I fought the impulse to the best of my ability for the first three days...but even though I knew it was wrong, and that I really had no excuses left now, I caved in. Feeling sheepish and before I could really question what I was doing I found out from my hotel reception where the nearest second hand bookshop was that stocked english copies, was there within 5 minutes (turned out to be around the corner it was too near to pass up) and 30 mins later I emerged with Stephen King's The Shining and A Pair of Blue Eyes by Thomas Hardy.
To be fair it couldn't possibly have been books that broke the bank. What forced me into bankruptcy in Europe was indulgence. But even I, an addict who flits beetween denial and acceptance, can acknowledge that for me indulgence and books go hand in hand...probably always will.
The only other thing I can imagine I have spent as much on would be museum entries. Oh and croissants.
Books bought overseas:
The Book Thief
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Of Mice and Men
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Madame Bovary
The Shining
A Pair of Blue Eyes
Book on the history of the Medici Family
A french phrase book
Other books accumulated but not bought:
A Clockwork Orange
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Wallpaper Guide to Paris
Biography of Marilyn Monroe (actually this one was brought from home, purchased in Canberra)
Saturday, 15 February 2014
Breakfast at Tiffany's: Marilyn Monroe, the real Holly Golightly.
Just finished reading Capote's delightful 'Breakfast at Tiffany's.' It was abolutely joyous to read actually, particularly in light of having read Lois Banner's biography of Marilyn Monroe, 'Marilyn: The Passion the Paradox', a few months ago.
I say 'actually' because it is one of those novels one hears a great deal about from friends etc. simply because it will never be able to escape comparison with the iconic movie adaptation....the typical classic/adaptation crisis that seems to affect more and more literary works these days. I went into the novel in a way cynically, expecting to find a more vague, less articulate version of the movie, perhaps with less enchanting characters and a realism that was more drudgery than enlightening. Maybe because I confess to knowing very little about Capote's style. What I have heard is that he pays close attention to the actual structure of his sentences and as a young boy and man dedicated himself to this art with great discipline. I also knew that his dedication to this art enabled him to create the non-fiction (semi-non-fiction?) work 'In Cold Blood.' For some reason in my mind I assumed this may result in something that reads like a newspaper article...and journalistic writing is something I have yet to learn to enjoy.
However my assumptions were proven wrong by the second page, when the characters come to life through the simplicity of his descriptions and his tendency to let his characters talk themselves, at length, even ramble, but in a way that is always constructive or at least poignant.
According to Banner Monroe was Capote's main source of inspiration for the flighty and naive Holly Golightly, and for me, the confused and complex starlet absolutely sprung from the pages as I read the novel (or novella? It is terribly short). I have also read he intended Monroe for the movie part, not Audrey Hepburn. Although I originally could not imagine this, after reading the novella I can and wish it were so! Or at least there were two versions, one Monroe, one Hepburn. Hepburn's portaryal of flightiness is charming, but I guess I always found it somewhat too refined. Even when trying to play a country child-bride become NY socialite I find her admirably poised and sophisticated. Whereas what came through in Capote's novella for me was a woman whose problems and broken hilbilly background have created scars within her psyche that were not all that refined at all and in this sense Monroe, whose background matches Golightly's to a rather alarming degree, could portary this perfectly in my opinion.
At many times in the novel I wondered how far Capote could push the dysfunction of the character before toppling it over into the realm of absolute no return, where the reader would lose hope for her and see her as simply a bum...no magic about that at all. I think I sensed this tension most clearly towards the end of the book when Holly is about to leave NY for Rio, aware that in doing so she would be abusing the friendship of a man who is forking out thousands of dollars to pay for her lawyer. I could not read fast enough to see whether this last straw was something Capote would need to defend, and my suspicions were correct, justify he did:
'I haven't much choice. I talked it over with the lawyer: oh, I didn't tell him anything re Rio - he'd tip the badgers himself, rather than lose his fee, to say nothing of the nickels O.J. put up for bail. Bless O. J.'s heart; but once on the coast I helped him win more than ten thou in a single poker hand: we're square'
Here Capote reassures us that Holly is not wholly without moral integrity, even if she does 'go lightly through life.' If he didn't at some point Holly would start reminding the reader of that friend we all have who never pays us back or leeches off us, I fear. Thus Holly would not be endearing or lovable, just rather annoying and pitiful. The type of character or person we lose hope in and stay away from in our day to day lives.
So Capote succeeds in mainting a fine balance between realistically portraying a wandering broken soul, but not one that is without charm or redemption. The story is in a sense quite gritty, a child-bride, living off charming those around her. As Holly says about herself: 'Even though I kept telling him: but, Doc, I'm not fourteen any more, and I'm not Lulamae. But the terrible part is....I am. I'm still stealing turkey eggs and running through a brier patch. Only now I call it having the mean reds.'
This is exctly the charm about the character: that Holly is keenly aware of her background and her psychological issues, and actively makes others aware of them too no matter how confronting, not to garner pity which is also common, but to invite them into her private world where they can simultaneously see her flaws but also her magnificence. For in doing so they can see for themselves the chaos she has endured making her survival all the more delicate and incredible. Once again I am drawn back to thinking of Marilyn Monroe, one quote of her's in particular (which I refuse to discredit simply because it is glorified quite meaninglessly on facebook):
“I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.”
That is what this charm is, the charm of paradox. How one can be a mess and wonderful at the same time is an intriguing mystery to most people who discover this embodied in someone they know at some point in their lives (I say some point because these people usually do not remain present for long, always floating and drifting out of lives as quickly as they fly into them).
Another way in which Holly seemed to me the literary replication of Monroe was how both seem to be phoneys but also not to be phoneys. In the sense there is in some degree an awareness to their act, but on another level, a submission to some kind of impulse or way of being they believe is right within them. O.J. Berman at the beginning of the novel tries to understand Holly's at times self-aware socialite charade-sometimes lost little girl personality. 'You're wrong. She is a phony. But on the other hand you're right. She isn't a phony because she's a real phony. She believes all this crap she believes.'
One of Banner's most interesting argument in regards to Monroe was that when playing the dim-witted blonde bombshell, she was both giving in to the impulse to exhibit herself (her body, her sexuality, her desirability to men) and parodying this stereotype. Monroe was no dim-wit, but at the same time was highly aware of how powerful pretending so could be. In a way I feel Holly also uses this talent, switching from naive child to actress capable of parodying the very things expected of her from society and her peers, as long as it gets her somewhere or something in return:
'I suppose you think I am very brazen. Or tres fou. Or something.'
'No not at all.'
She seemed disappointed. 'Yes you do. Everybody does. I don't mind. It's useful.'
That said I am sure my perspective on Holly's character is biased, based primarily on this single biography I have read regarding Monroe. However this is the framework with which I choose to read the novella and I stand by it. The blonde hair though of Capote's Holly, the naive charm, the way in which she could be both genuine and phoney reminded me terribly of Banner's portait of Monroe.
On another note, the passage that moved me most, because in a strange way I could identify with it so strongly myself (maybe we all can or know someone like this) was Holly's advice to Joe Bell. It left me nearly in tears and I read it again and again, stunned by the simplicity and truthfulness of Capote's observation of all free-willed, lost individuals:
'Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell,’ Holly advised him. ‘That was Doc’s mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing; the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky.'
Beautiful.
I say 'actually' because it is one of those novels one hears a great deal about from friends etc. simply because it will never be able to escape comparison with the iconic movie adaptation....the typical classic/adaptation crisis that seems to affect more and more literary works these days. I went into the novel in a way cynically, expecting to find a more vague, less articulate version of the movie, perhaps with less enchanting characters and a realism that was more drudgery than enlightening. Maybe because I confess to knowing very little about Capote's style. What I have heard is that he pays close attention to the actual structure of his sentences and as a young boy and man dedicated himself to this art with great discipline. I also knew that his dedication to this art enabled him to create the non-fiction (semi-non-fiction?) work 'In Cold Blood.' For some reason in my mind I assumed this may result in something that reads like a newspaper article...and journalistic writing is something I have yet to learn to enjoy.
However my assumptions were proven wrong by the second page, when the characters come to life through the simplicity of his descriptions and his tendency to let his characters talk themselves, at length, even ramble, but in a way that is always constructive or at least poignant.
According to Banner Monroe was Capote's main source of inspiration for the flighty and naive Holly Golightly, and for me, the confused and complex starlet absolutely sprung from the pages as I read the novel (or novella? It is terribly short). I have also read he intended Monroe for the movie part, not Audrey Hepburn. Although I originally could not imagine this, after reading the novella I can and wish it were so! Or at least there were two versions, one Monroe, one Hepburn. Hepburn's portaryal of flightiness is charming, but I guess I always found it somewhat too refined. Even when trying to play a country child-bride become NY socialite I find her admirably poised and sophisticated. Whereas what came through in Capote's novella for me was a woman whose problems and broken hilbilly background have created scars within her psyche that were not all that refined at all and in this sense Monroe, whose background matches Golightly's to a rather alarming degree, could portary this perfectly in my opinion.
At many times in the novel I wondered how far Capote could push the dysfunction of the character before toppling it over into the realm of absolute no return, where the reader would lose hope for her and see her as simply a bum...no magic about that at all. I think I sensed this tension most clearly towards the end of the book when Holly is about to leave NY for Rio, aware that in doing so she would be abusing the friendship of a man who is forking out thousands of dollars to pay for her lawyer. I could not read fast enough to see whether this last straw was something Capote would need to defend, and my suspicions were correct, justify he did:
'I haven't much choice. I talked it over with the lawyer: oh, I didn't tell him anything re Rio - he'd tip the badgers himself, rather than lose his fee, to say nothing of the nickels O.J. put up for bail. Bless O. J.'s heart; but once on the coast I helped him win more than ten thou in a single poker hand: we're square'
Here Capote reassures us that Holly is not wholly without moral integrity, even if she does 'go lightly through life.' If he didn't at some point Holly would start reminding the reader of that friend we all have who never pays us back or leeches off us, I fear. Thus Holly would not be endearing or lovable, just rather annoying and pitiful. The type of character or person we lose hope in and stay away from in our day to day lives.
So Capote succeeds in mainting a fine balance between realistically portraying a wandering broken soul, but not one that is without charm or redemption. The story is in a sense quite gritty, a child-bride, living off charming those around her. As Holly says about herself: 'Even though I kept telling him: but, Doc, I'm not fourteen any more, and I'm not Lulamae. But the terrible part is....I am. I'm still stealing turkey eggs and running through a brier patch. Only now I call it having the mean reds.'
This is exctly the charm about the character: that Holly is keenly aware of her background and her psychological issues, and actively makes others aware of them too no matter how confronting, not to garner pity which is also common, but to invite them into her private world where they can simultaneously see her flaws but also her magnificence. For in doing so they can see for themselves the chaos she has endured making her survival all the more delicate and incredible. Once again I am drawn back to thinking of Marilyn Monroe, one quote of her's in particular (which I refuse to discredit simply because it is glorified quite meaninglessly on facebook):
“I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.”
That is what this charm is, the charm of paradox. How one can be a mess and wonderful at the same time is an intriguing mystery to most people who discover this embodied in someone they know at some point in their lives (I say some point because these people usually do not remain present for long, always floating and drifting out of lives as quickly as they fly into them).
Another way in which Holly seemed to me the literary replication of Monroe was how both seem to be phoneys but also not to be phoneys. In the sense there is in some degree an awareness to their act, but on another level, a submission to some kind of impulse or way of being they believe is right within them. O.J. Berman at the beginning of the novel tries to understand Holly's at times self-aware socialite charade-sometimes lost little girl personality. 'You're wrong. She is a phony. But on the other hand you're right. She isn't a phony because she's a real phony. She believes all this crap she believes.'
One of Banner's most interesting argument in regards to Monroe was that when playing the dim-witted blonde bombshell, she was both giving in to the impulse to exhibit herself (her body, her sexuality, her desirability to men) and parodying this stereotype. Monroe was no dim-wit, but at the same time was highly aware of how powerful pretending so could be. In a way I feel Holly also uses this talent, switching from naive child to actress capable of parodying the very things expected of her from society and her peers, as long as it gets her somewhere or something in return:
'I suppose you think I am very brazen. Or tres fou. Or something.'
'No not at all.'
She seemed disappointed. 'Yes you do. Everybody does. I don't mind. It's useful.'
That said I am sure my perspective on Holly's character is biased, based primarily on this single biography I have read regarding Monroe. However this is the framework with which I choose to read the novella and I stand by it. The blonde hair though of Capote's Holly, the naive charm, the way in which she could be both genuine and phoney reminded me terribly of Banner's portait of Monroe.
On another note, the passage that moved me most, because in a strange way I could identify with it so strongly myself (maybe we all can or know someone like this) was Holly's advice to Joe Bell. It left me nearly in tears and I read it again and again, stunned by the simplicity and truthfulness of Capote's observation of all free-willed, lost individuals:
'Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell,’ Holly advised him. ‘That was Doc’s mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing; the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky.'
Beautiful.
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