Tonight, my bathwater is the color of absinthe and I remember you - how your hot, salty skin scorched me in our mutual embrace. I remember how you made love to me and brought me to life, drawing me out of heartbreak's coccoon and smothering me with comfort and friendship.
Thin and white, my Caesarean scar almost gleams on my flesh. A tiny bruise has nestled under my left knee. Your hands must have passed over both wounds a hundred times, not pausing. If I close my eyes, I can remember how your sweat smelled, dripping from my own hair and trickling onto my neck. Your breath was steady and regular - broken only by a few sighs of exertion and pleasure - and curled like steam first in my ears, then across my lips. Looking up at you, I saw everything beautifully human about you: the curve of your full lips, the square set of your jaw, the muscular dip of your shoulders and the buckle of your weight traveling down tanned arms.
You were delicious. In the dark, with only the flicker of lightning behind the dusty drapes, I saw your shadow rise and fall, in tune with my hips that were hungry for a man, hungry for you. My heart, I imagine, bled like a ripe pomegranate when you laced your fingers together behind the watery mess of my curls, cradling my head like a bird's nest porting eggs. The soft scratch of your chest against mine, like the counts of a metronome, occasionally was lost in the loud rumbles of unexpected thunder outside the window.
You didn't love me any more than the sky could hold rain. No matter - the hours were filled with a comforable surrender, a knowing, an understanding: the peace that lay here was impenetrable. These moments were ours. The emptiness of need and longing was filled with no promises or regrets, but with the simple affections borne of the hope and ideas of confidantes. We crashed into each other - you, the wave, destroying the foamy, stretched-out shore, and I, the crumbling sand that drowned beneath it, caving, melting, dissolving completely.
Not a day will go by that I will forget you. The tugs of your teeth against my neck and the pull of your slender fingers at my thighs still burn me, remind me that I'm living, that I can feel. We lay together, shuddering, holding one another in the aftermath of tangled sheets, finding our way to reality again, swimming through exhaustion to the surface of fulfillment and relief. You lifted your sticky forehead from mine and looked into my eyes, my protector and my friend. As long as I can draw breath, I will recall what it felt like the moment you freed me to breathe again and taste the air in my mouth like I was finally, finally going to live.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Fish Story
I took one long, last sniff of the white tank top with bright, jewel-toned mandalas screen-printed on it and nuzzled it with the side of my face. Closing my eyes, I held it there for a moment, remembering. Buzz. Click. The washer had filled to the appropriate marker and shut off, trembling slightly. I opened my eyes and tossed the tank top into the sudsy swirl, on top of pajama pants, underwear, and socks. With my right hand, I closed the lid on the washer, turned off the light, and pulled the door to the laundry room behind me as I exited into the kitchen.
I could feel hot tears starting to sting my face as I could not help but indulge the beautiful, brief memories of the days before.
For women, the need to be physically close to another human being is a pervasive one. For heterosexual women, the closeness and intimacy that is experienced through cuddling, holding, kissing, and sleeping with a man is irreplaceable. The problematic aspect with this fundamental human experience is that its momentary duration does not equate with its impact on emotional memory. Furthermore, the significance of these experiences is directly subjugated to the fallibility of perspective and the vaccuum created by loneliness. In short, if a man holds a woman for an hour or so, the holding is just that - holding for an hour or so. But for the woman who trusted enough in that hour and everything leading up to it, those sixty minutes of bare humanity get translated into affection, desire, loyalty, and commitment by some intangible cosmic process that ultimately manifests itself as a burning, empty hole in the chest - a hole so large and painful that our own awareness of it begins before it is even formed.
A few days ago, I let someone hold me. For the first time in a long time, I opened myself up to another human being. It was beautiful and wonderful - that glorious feeling of deep, slow kisses and the incredible heat that results from two bodies that are pressed together in mutual embrace. Being held by someone to whom you are attracted, both mentally and physically, yields that temporary surrender in which everything rational and concrete starts to slip away and a new reality is formed: a reality in which one feels safe, secure, protected, and loved. In those moments, as Dickinson said, "[we] dwell in possibility." It takes a total surrendering of self to other in those moments to allow a person to touch us, to be near us, to absorb us in that state of being called "togetherness" in which we self-sacrifice to gain ourselves back. Seeing our needs, wants, and desires reflected in another person who mirrors them to us in their own perspective makes us feel valid. It makes us feel human. It makes us feel as if we are not alone.
Boris Vallejo's 1987 painting, Pisces, represents this feeling perfectly. The legend of Pisces, in astrology, tells of two fish who are joined together by a cord (usually depicted as being held in their mouths). They are endlessly inseparable, bound together, but constantly attempt to swim in different directions. Representing a moral conundruum of sorts, this image serves as the perfect metaphor for one who finds himself pulled in two different directions, unable to fully pursue either of them. In the painting, a mermaid and merman are suspended in the ocean with their arms outstretched - their faces almost touch, but there is enough distance between the two that they are separate entities. The curving of their fins into a near-circular formation above their heads shows the desire to be complete, to be whole - but the space between them does not arc into completion.
And so, we are all willing participants and self-created victims in our own fish stories. Like the story of Pisces, the idea that we can totally lose ourselves in another person and acheive total union is a myth. Both individuals in any kind of coupling or relationship must retain their own individual identities, and these identities may or may not arc into the beautiful synthesis that eliminates a significant space between them into which other aspects of life may bloom or fall.
Having had some time to think about my own recent fish story, I have tried to deny the emptiness that I feel after having shared an experience with another person whom I consider to be my equal in many ways. In a sense, he is truly my other fish - we are bound together, inseparable, because of the emotional connection we share. At the moment, though painful, we must swim in opposite directions (geographically, at least).
It may be a long time before we can swim together again, but I am willing to wait for that.
I could feel hot tears starting to sting my face as I could not help but indulge the beautiful, brief memories of the days before.
For women, the need to be physically close to another human being is a pervasive one. For heterosexual women, the closeness and intimacy that is experienced through cuddling, holding, kissing, and sleeping with a man is irreplaceable. The problematic aspect with this fundamental human experience is that its momentary duration does not equate with its impact on emotional memory. Furthermore, the significance of these experiences is directly subjugated to the fallibility of perspective and the vaccuum created by loneliness. In short, if a man holds a woman for an hour or so, the holding is just that - holding for an hour or so. But for the woman who trusted enough in that hour and everything leading up to it, those sixty minutes of bare humanity get translated into affection, desire, loyalty, and commitment by some intangible cosmic process that ultimately manifests itself as a burning, empty hole in the chest - a hole so large and painful that our own awareness of it begins before it is even formed.
A few days ago, I let someone hold me. For the first time in a long time, I opened myself up to another human being. It was beautiful and wonderful - that glorious feeling of deep, slow kisses and the incredible heat that results from two bodies that are pressed together in mutual embrace. Being held by someone to whom you are attracted, both mentally and physically, yields that temporary surrender in which everything rational and concrete starts to slip away and a new reality is formed: a reality in which one feels safe, secure, protected, and loved. In those moments, as Dickinson said, "[we] dwell in possibility." It takes a total surrendering of self to other in those moments to allow a person to touch us, to be near us, to absorb us in that state of being called "togetherness" in which we self-sacrifice to gain ourselves back. Seeing our needs, wants, and desires reflected in another person who mirrors them to us in their own perspective makes us feel valid. It makes us feel human. It makes us feel as if we are not alone.
Boris Vallejo's 1987 painting, Pisces, represents this feeling perfectly. The legend of Pisces, in astrology, tells of two fish who are joined together by a cord (usually depicted as being held in their mouths). They are endlessly inseparable, bound together, but constantly attempt to swim in different directions. Representing a moral conundruum of sorts, this image serves as the perfect metaphor for one who finds himself pulled in two different directions, unable to fully pursue either of them. In the painting, a mermaid and merman are suspended in the ocean with their arms outstretched - their faces almost touch, but there is enough distance between the two that they are separate entities. The curving of their fins into a near-circular formation above their heads shows the desire to be complete, to be whole - but the space between them does not arc into completion.
And so, we are all willing participants and self-created victims in our own fish stories. Like the story of Pisces, the idea that we can totally lose ourselves in another person and acheive total union is a myth. Both individuals in any kind of coupling or relationship must retain their own individual identities, and these identities may or may not arc into the beautiful synthesis that eliminates a significant space between them into which other aspects of life may bloom or fall.
Having had some time to think about my own recent fish story, I have tried to deny the emptiness that I feel after having shared an experience with another person whom I consider to be my equal in many ways. In a sense, he is truly my other fish - we are bound together, inseparable, because of the emotional connection we share. At the moment, though painful, we must swim in opposite directions (geographically, at least).
It may be a long time before we can swim together again, but I am willing to wait for that.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Book Review: On Hitler's Mountain
“A universal answer may never be found, but perhaps an examination of just one family, mine, can provide additional understanding of what paved the way to Hitler’s success and led to wholesale disaster” (x). This line from Irmgard Hunt’s memoir, On Hitler’s Mountain: My Nazi Childhood, succinctly defines the task of her book: to explore the inner workings of Nazi Germany and its dramatic transformations. In short, the memoir reveals the process of Hunt’s own realization and acceptance of the future of her country, embodied in a detailed family history that is closely bound to and influenced by Adolf Hitler’s political agenda. Divided into four parts, On Hitler’s Mountain surveys Hunt’s family origins, emphasizing the poverty and desperation which fostered her parents’ hope and faith in Hitler, and narrates the major events and turning points in the Second World War with amiable clarity. The text aligns Hunt’s childhood experiences with the collective feeling of change and uncertainty shared by others who lived in Nazi Germany. On Hitler’s Mountain is a refreshing account of World War II that offers an intimate glimpse into the life of a family that essentially lived in the Fuhrer’s backyard; Hunt’s memoir blends Nazi with nostalgia, evoking both curiosity and empathy in the reader.
Hunt’s introductory prose wavers between painting romanticized vignettes of rural German life and being laden with minute and uninteresting familial details. Hunt explores every facet of family life during the early chapters which describe her youth. Recounting how her grandparents and parents met, and the various jobs they did to be able to survive occupies much of the initial chapters. Utilizing anecdotes and interviews from family members throughout the book, Hunt is able to recount the earliest moments of her childhood, including her birth, with alarmingly specific detail. She portrays a seemingly normal childhood; later, as the Nazi philosophy begins to creep into and interfere with every aspect of it, the reader is amazed with how quickly Hitler’s influence spreads. Detailing family life is necessary, however, to establish the nostalgic tone with which Hunt describes Nazi Germany, the seat of her childhood memories, and to clearly illustrate the attitudes and perceptions of middle class civilians prior to and during Hitler’s regime.
Hunt’s narrative personalizes the far-reaching effects of Nazism on civilian life; throughout the early chapters, she references several episodes in which the world around her is changing without reason or justification. A minor, but powerful example is when Hunt describes the traditional Christmas songs her family used to sing, which are soon replaced by Nazi-approved lyrics. Christmas, usually regarded as a time of childlike anticipation, is described as a time of confusion and uncertainty, and serves as a grand metaphor illustrating how even the steepest of traditions crumbled under Hitler’s iron fist. While On Hitler’s Mountain seems to move slowly at first, the narration echoes the gradual infusion of all things Nazi into Hunt’s childhood home. At first, Nazism seems distant, but it soon becomes very real and concrete. The most poignant image is that of Hunt being trained by her father to raise her arm in the ‘Heil, Hitler’ salute in front of his portrait at the tender age of three: “We stood in front of the Fuhrer’s portrait…I laughed at first and thought we were playing some kind of game but quickly realized Vati was dead serious. He insisted I thrust my small arm forward in just the right way” (62). Descriptions of events such as this one appear in each chapter, and further illustrate how Hunt’s family regarded Hitler with unwavering reverence.
Of particular interest is Hunt’s ability to relate history with a distinctly bifurcated tone. She manages to simultaneously express childlike wonder and adult wisdom when relaying her experiences. She tells about her childhood friend Ruthchen, whose name is changed to Ingrid, “one of the most favored Germanic names” (58). Incredulous, Hunt listens as her mother explains that “it is better for her not to have a Jewish name” (58). Both curiosity and innocence are indicated when Hunt explains, “I had no idea what Jewish was, but it could not be good if you had to give up your name because of it” (58). The wisdom of adulthood surfaces as Hunt reflects that Mutti explains the name change “without obvious malice in her voice” (58). Other times, Hunt masters a mixture of sardonic irony and bitter, unforgiving sarcasm in her prose. She explains that she never understood whether the beautiful French dolls sent to her and her sister by Frau Goring as a “special, neighborly gift” when they lost their father were “paid for or simply taken from occupied France as war booty” (126). Yet, the dolls remained “wonderful, luxurious toys providing happiness and escape,” solidifying the ambiguous nature of the gesture (127). The effect of Hunt’s dual-natured tone is one that emphasizes the uncertainty she felt as a child experiencing these events, and the sobering truth she realizes as an adult reflecting upon them.
Items of historical significance are presented with surprising authority and without sacrificing conversational narration in On Hitler’s Mountain, mostly because they are aligned with their immediate effects on Hunt’s family. In the beginning of the memoir, she effectively summarizes the German distaste for the Treaty of Versailles and shows the events that propel Hitler’s rise to power. Throughout the novel, events throughout the war such as the invasion of Czechoslovakia, the annex of the Sudetenland, and most importantly for Hunt, the invasion of Poland in 1939 are intertwined with her family history, presenting them as significant markers in her lifetime. She writes:
Three months after my birthday trip to Salzburg, Hitler sent fifty German divisions into Poland…Eight months after the invasion, I saw Mutti’s face fall as she read the official letter that called my father, now thirty-four, to join the army. The reality of war and the inevitability of our personal involvement suddenly became clear to her in a way it had not before. (104-5)
Rather than a smattering of the dates and objectives of military campaigns, treaties, or political agendas, these significant historical moments are directly linked to personal experience. Briefly recounting an incident in which her neighbor’s invalid child is taken away by Nazis, Hunt reveals the darkest details of Hitler’s euthanasia program from a childlike perspective. The reader appreciates her inclusion of historical detail, which is unassumingly presented. Her prose, colored by the German language, makes the history both accessible and interesting, if only relevant because it directly impacts her daily routine.
At times, Hunt’s use of German phrases is daunting in frequency, but is both interesting and meaningful. Each chapter is filled with German words and expressions that authenticate the memoir and recreate the era. It is clear that Hunt maintains an affinity for her mother tongue, not only because of the sheer amount of German words which are used, but also because of the careful selection of words that convey both nostalgia and great emotional depth. Likely familiar with the lexicon of the Second World War, the average reader will recognize words like Luftwaffe and Lebensraum. Words like Setzkasten, however, are ones the reader learns to appreciate: “Every first-grader had a Setzkasten, a flat wooden case, about the size of a cigar box, containing tiny cardboard rectangles depicting upper and lowercase letters stashed in small individual compartments” (l09). A tool used to form syllables and words, the Setzkasten that Hunt inherited from an older child was missing several of its original cardboard letters. On her father’s last furlough after six months of service in France, he “drew [her] a whole supply of beautiful, black Gothic letters that were just as good as the printed ones” (109). The Setzkasten is a meaningful object for Hunt, especially after her father’s death. Hunt provides, when available, direct English translations for German words. Other times, she includes brief descriptions or definitions that help familiarize the reader with concepts or items specific to Nazi German culture, such as the Familien Stammbuch (family record book) and the Mutterkreuz (Mother’s Cross).
Photographs and captions further personalize the memoir and strengthen its overall impact. The staunch, hard faces of Hunt’s ancestors stare from the pages like proud sentries guarding her story. Adding dimensions of realism and nostalgia, the photographs acquaint the reader with the members of Hunt’s family who were most affected by the war and provide visual representation of how hard life in Nazi Germany truly was. There are just as many, if not more, images of Adolph Hitler himself, including a brooding, yet intimate, profile of him surveying the landscape on Obersalzburg. A striking portrait of Hitler holding two small, distinctly Aryan children on his lap evokes fear and discomfort: the children’s faces flanking Hitler’s posed, political smile appear confused and worried, searching the reader for help and comfort.
Hunt includes not only photographs of people, but also of objects and places that are directly related to her story. A favorite image is one of “decorative bowls with alpine flowers” painted by Hunt’s father, who worked as a painter in a china factory (56). Images of her mother’s diaries and financial recordkeeping reiterate Hitler’s direct influence on the family; her mother’s hand logged small contributions to the Nazi party and proudly announced the Fuhrer’s birthday in her personal journals. The captions to these photographs are as much a part of the memoir as the images they accompany; not only do they provide an explanation for what is in each picture, but they also offer uncluttered, powerful statements. Another significant image is a portrait of a smiling Hunt at her school desk, pressing a pen to paper, simply captioned, “In spite of everything, I learn to write” (132).
Readers will marvel at anecdotes that reveal what life in Nazi Germany was like for school-aged children. Descriptions of emergency preparedness training at school illustrate Hunt and her classmates learning to breathe through gas masks and evacuate to bomb shelters. Hunt recounts a conversation with a school teacher who bribes her with cookies to repeat the condemning things her grandfather had to say about Hitler. Most appalling, however, is a passage that describes the principal of Hunt’s elementary school forcing her to repeatedly greet him with “Heil Hitler” outside his office door until he is satisfied with her performance and lets her in; the end result is a nine-year old reduced to tears because her salute does not, in the principal’s opinion, show the appropriate amount of respect to the Fuhrer’s name. Later, she is treated like a pseudo-celebrity by adults who find out she lives in close proximity to Hitler and has even been photographed sitting on his knee; this revelation causes her to be favored by her fanatical Nazi teachers, who rejoice in having her stand in front of her classmates and recite the gruesome details of how her father died fighting for Hitler. He is the presence that looms over every fact of her childhood, lurking throughout the school day as she is educated, smiling from the painted faces of the dolls sent by Frau Goring, hiding in the words of holiday songs, and living on the mountain just beyond her home.
The first half of the memoir is dedicated to describing a life that is eventually consumed by Nazism; the latter half describes the end of the war and the process of unraveling Hitler’s hold on those who had been so devoted to him. Reviewer Dale Farris writes, “Hunt's is a precautionary reminder of what can happen when an ordinary society chooses a cult of personality over rational thought” (The Library Journal). A significant portion of the latter chapters illustrates the effects of this choice, exploring Mutti’s own varied reactions to the reality of what Hitler had done to their beloved Germany: anger, disappointment, guilt, shame, and eventually, peace. Though the memoir is largely about Hunt’s personal thoughts and experiences, a great deal of the book is dependent on the changing attitudes of her family members as they begin to realize the truth. One reviewer notes that the memoir “[ends] with some sense of closure among the family members… [and] satisfies the reader that the author has made peace with her family and with her own bizarre upbringing” (Scott). Hunt herself explains that “Slowly the stigma of being German has receded, and I am coming to terms with the memories of my life as a girl on what for a short, dark time was Hitler’s mountain” (318). Her book is a living testament for anyone who lived, like her, in those uncertain and fearful times and searched for first for answers, and later for reconciliation; it preserves the aspects of childhood worth nostalgia and gives new life to those that were absorbed and destroyed by Nazi culture.
Works Cited
“Book Summary and Media Reviews: On Hitler’s Mountain.” Book Browse. 18 Sept.
2008. http://www.bookbrowse.com/reviews/index.cfm?book_number=1544
Farris, Dale. Rev. of On Hitler’s Mountain by Irmgard Hunt. The Library Journal. .”
Book Browse. 18 Sept. 2008. http://www.bookbrowse.com/reviews/index.cfm?book_number=1544
Hunt, Irmgard. On Hitler’s Mountain: My Nazi Childhood. London: Atlantic Books, 2005.
Scott, Barbara Bamberger. Rev. of On Hitler’s Mountain by Irmgard Hunt. Curled Up With a Good Book. 20 September 2008. http://www.curledup.com/hitlersm.htm
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Mission So Not Accomplshed
After laying around on my couch most of the afternoon in pajamas reading Sookie Stackhouse novels, I decide to take a break from the world of the "supes" (vernacular for supernatural creatures/people for those who have visited Bon Temps before) and go out on a manhunt.
I have always looked kind of witchy - in the spell casting way, that is. Born with naturally black hair and skin devoid of melatonin, it's not hard for me to look the least bit Halloweeny on a regular day. I have always embraced my black-and-white combo, and found that it works to my advantage in the dating world. So, I "suped" it up and went on what I hoped would be a successful manhunt in a local bookstore.
Though I'm embarrassed to admit it, I had recently checked out a self-help book from the library near my house that was full of pointers on attracting men. Halfway through the book (which I was mostly disgusted with), I became bored enough to try out some of these pointers, and was amazed at the results: they worked. I have now learned a few surefire tricks to get men to notice me - and none of them are slutty, theatrical, or damsel-in-distressish.
Having been in three serious relationships in my life and the few scattered dates that led to them, I haven't really played the dating game. I used to think I was the "marrying kind," that is, until I got divorced, and now I really just want a boyfriend. I'm happy living on my own and being independent - I just really need that special someone to support me and be here for me when I'm lonely - to make my life happier and better.
Imagine my surprise when my manhunt didn't go so well. I had one guy in the New Age section follow me around for about 15 minutes but he never did talk to me. He was blonde, though, and I'm not attracted to blondes (unless you count Eric from TrueBlood, and he's a fictional character). I decided my next point of interest would be historical fiction. I like history. I like fiction. It's a no-brainer. Any guy who would be in that section and standing anywhere close to something on the Tudors or the Renaissance would be guaranteed to get my number.
There he was.
He was perfect! Thick head of black hair, nicely-trimmed goatee, dark jeans with boots and a leather jacket, holding a biography of Lincoln in one hand and a coffee in the other, perusing some translations of Italian fiction. Oh yeah - I started busting out the protocol from the "attracting men" book that has so far, only drawn state troopers with missing teeth and men that I'm quite sure have had at least two colonoscopies in the last decade.
I sidled over to him, looking witchy and smart and bookish, and he SPOKE TO ME. Yep. Started a conversation. It was going great...I was about to rattle off the list of my favorite books right when she came around the corner and ruined it. The wife, that is. The ring had been conveniently concealed by the coffee, which was in his left hand.
So, I cruised over to magazines next. I have been thinking a lot about tattoos lately, and I saw an older guy browsing the automotive and tattoo magazines. Probably a pig, but he was cute. Never looked up from the motorcycle mag he was reading intently. Confirmed piggish nature.
Finally, I ordered coffee, thinking I'd kill some time at the front of the store where I could scope the single men out as soon as they came through the door. This was a great plan - I could see firsthand who was coming in alone or not. After an hour of browsing and stalking aisles, I needed a break.
Apparently, only couples and desperate single women who look like witches or artists (ohmigod the girl with the beanie and tights on her laptop--YIKES!) cruise bookstores on Sunday nights. The manhunt was unproductive, so I returned home to settle back into pajamas and get back into Sookie Stackhouse.
I have decided that fictional characters have deluded my ability to truly evaluate a real, living, breathing man. If they don't have fangs, don't sparkle, can't read minds, or actually have to sleep, I've pretty much lost interest these days. Damn books for ruining my dating life.
I have always looked kind of witchy - in the spell casting way, that is. Born with naturally black hair and skin devoid of melatonin, it's not hard for me to look the least bit Halloweeny on a regular day. I have always embraced my black-and-white combo, and found that it works to my advantage in the dating world. So, I "suped" it up and went on what I hoped would be a successful manhunt in a local bookstore.
Though I'm embarrassed to admit it, I had recently checked out a self-help book from the library near my house that was full of pointers on attracting men. Halfway through the book (which I was mostly disgusted with), I became bored enough to try out some of these pointers, and was amazed at the results: they worked. I have now learned a few surefire tricks to get men to notice me - and none of them are slutty, theatrical, or damsel-in-distressish.
Having been in three serious relationships in my life and the few scattered dates that led to them, I haven't really played the dating game. I used to think I was the "marrying kind," that is, until I got divorced, and now I really just want a boyfriend. I'm happy living on my own and being independent - I just really need that special someone to support me and be here for me when I'm lonely - to make my life happier and better.
Imagine my surprise when my manhunt didn't go so well. I had one guy in the New Age section follow me around for about 15 minutes but he never did talk to me. He was blonde, though, and I'm not attracted to blondes (unless you count Eric from TrueBlood, and he's a fictional character). I decided my next point of interest would be historical fiction. I like history. I like fiction. It's a no-brainer. Any guy who would be in that section and standing anywhere close to something on the Tudors or the Renaissance would be guaranteed to get my number.
There he was.
He was perfect! Thick head of black hair, nicely-trimmed goatee, dark jeans with boots and a leather jacket, holding a biography of Lincoln in one hand and a coffee in the other, perusing some translations of Italian fiction. Oh yeah - I started busting out the protocol from the "attracting men" book that has so far, only drawn state troopers with missing teeth and men that I'm quite sure have had at least two colonoscopies in the last decade.
I sidled over to him, looking witchy and smart and bookish, and he SPOKE TO ME. Yep. Started a conversation. It was going great...I was about to rattle off the list of my favorite books right when she came around the corner and ruined it. The wife, that is. The ring had been conveniently concealed by the coffee, which was in his left hand.
So, I cruised over to magazines next. I have been thinking a lot about tattoos lately, and I saw an older guy browsing the automotive and tattoo magazines. Probably a pig, but he was cute. Never looked up from the motorcycle mag he was reading intently. Confirmed piggish nature.
Finally, I ordered coffee, thinking I'd kill some time at the front of the store where I could scope the single men out as soon as they came through the door. This was a great plan - I could see firsthand who was coming in alone or not. After an hour of browsing and stalking aisles, I needed a break.
Apparently, only couples and desperate single women who look like witches or artists (ohmigod the girl with the beanie and tights on her laptop--YIKES!) cruise bookstores on Sunday nights. The manhunt was unproductive, so I returned home to settle back into pajamas and get back into Sookie Stackhouse.
I have decided that fictional characters have deluded my ability to truly evaluate a real, living, breathing man. If they don't have fangs, don't sparkle, can't read minds, or actually have to sleep, I've pretty much lost interest these days. Damn books for ruining my dating life.
Book Review: The Queen of Subtleties (A Novel of Anne Boleyn)
I adored this piece of historical fiction. Suzannah Dunn knows her Tudor dynasty and shows it with subtle references to minor, quotidian things that only a true Tudor admirer would know. Her use of modern language (both in narration and dialogue) is an interesting twist, and one I think that is meant to draw the reader into the Reformation by making the characters more personable and easier for modern audiences to like and to relate to their own feelings. Undoubtedly, a parallel between this novel's portrayal of Anne Boleyn and the acting style mastered by Natalie Dormer in the Showtime series, The Tudors, can be drawn. The quick tongued self-absorption of this character is only matched by Dunn's sensitive handling of her dynamic, and often extreme, emotions. I'm not entirely sure that the secondary narration of Lucy Cornwallis was completely fitting; in many ways, it detracted from the main story, and was not fully developed enough to constitute a second narrator. The tidbits of post-Boleyn information we glean from the fictional narrator Cornwallis are not worth breaking up the more colorful tapestry that is woven through Anne's interior monologue. The prose in this novel is fluid and descriptive with several instances of bitingly sharp expression and wit - any fan of the infamous King Henry VIII is surely to enjoy this well-researched and creatively expressed piece of fiction.
Book Review: Nice to Come Home To
This book was typical chick-lit - love story gone awry interspersed with a few really profound sentences and funny moments. Ultimately, I was disappointed with the plot; Flowers allows one of the major characters, Patsy, to actually overshadow the protagonist, and seems to lose grasp of where the story is going about three-fourths of the way through. She conveniently recalls characters who have little to no development other than mention of a name to fill in latter parts of the story and reaches for a few unbelievable straws to bring the novel to a close. It occupied me for about three evenings before bed, but did not hold my interest enough to pursue other works by this author (Rebecca Flowers). The writer has some greater potential that is unfortunately not reflected by the poorly planned resolution to this story. If you need some mindless reading with a a few interesting characters, pick it up. If you want an expertly-executed plot with surprises and resolutions, look elsewhere.
Book Review: Bloodthirsty
Riding on the coattails of Stephenie Meyer’s success, novice writer Flynn Meaney (victim of a misfortunate family naming legacy or simply a terrible choice for a pseudonym) unsuccessfully attempts to cash in on the modern supernatural coming-of-age tale in her debut novel. While Meaney displays occasional flashes of brilliance in her concise one-liners worthy of any John Hughes antagonistic outcast, her continual self-referential cleverness and the overly dramatized interior monologue of her teenage boy protagonist, Finbar Frame, renders ineffective both the parody and the pastiche.
What should be a poignant reflection on the social value of adolescent pop-culture and a grand opportunity to defy bandwagon phenomena ends up being a poorly structured plot with lackluster characters. In her attempts to create an endearing portrait of the classic teenage outsider, Meaney ultimately produces a character who is as disappointing to the reader as he is to himself. Bloodthirsty fails to effectively satirize the vampire craze, yet succeeds in burying its reader under purposeless sexual references (think: “haha, she said boob”) and superficial dialogue.
This book is disappointing for several reasons. First, Meaney aims for an admirable goal. Potentially, this book could win over crowds of teenagers who are sick of Edward Cullen and Bella Swan and bring back the “cool” factor that defines loners such as Cullen in the first place. After all, her tale is about an outsider embracing his identity and accepting his inability to “fit in” with a crowd. Where she fails, though, is that Finbar’s complete desire to assimilate overshadows any shred of true rebel spirit. Wading through passages describing awkward teenage lust, the reader finds himself angered that Meaney drops her mission completely. A completely original take on the modern vampire attraction, Meaney intends her protagonist to pretend to be a vampire to get girls. In itself, the plot alone should yield ample opportunity to infuse commentary about the true nature of being an outsider – and the satisfaction that comes with forming an identity independent of social approval or expectation. In fact, her novel could celebrate individualism and uniqueness. Rather, the pages grow cold with jokes about abnormally-sized breasts on several female characters, both young and old, and an unresolved tension between what it means to be one’s self and embracing it rather than rejecting it.
The merits of this novel are few – but Meaney’s punchlines are often genuinely humorous and at times, gut-busters. Finn’s failed date with Celine, a French girl he meets online, is described as “the worst date since Adam and Eve took a stroll in the garden.” Sadly, this allusion is buried amidst several others that are far too recent to be effectively humorous to anyone over the age of 25 who has rejected Potter due to misplaced Christian abjuration or improper classification as a children’s hero.
In short, this book set out to achieve a big goal and missed it by several marks. Its graduate student author may have achieved little more than inspiring other young writers to pursue publishing. Given its overall lack of entertainment and impact, not even Bloodthirsty’s humor can quench the reader’s desire for a true rebel yell through the glamour and the fangs.
What should be a poignant reflection on the social value of adolescent pop-culture and a grand opportunity to defy bandwagon phenomena ends up being a poorly structured plot with lackluster characters. In her attempts to create an endearing portrait of the classic teenage outsider, Meaney ultimately produces a character who is as disappointing to the reader as he is to himself. Bloodthirsty fails to effectively satirize the vampire craze, yet succeeds in burying its reader under purposeless sexual references (think: “haha, she said boob”) and superficial dialogue.
This book is disappointing for several reasons. First, Meaney aims for an admirable goal. Potentially, this book could win over crowds of teenagers who are sick of Edward Cullen and Bella Swan and bring back the “cool” factor that defines loners such as Cullen in the first place. After all, her tale is about an outsider embracing his identity and accepting his inability to “fit in” with a crowd. Where she fails, though, is that Finbar’s complete desire to assimilate overshadows any shred of true rebel spirit. Wading through passages describing awkward teenage lust, the reader finds himself angered that Meaney drops her mission completely. A completely original take on the modern vampire attraction, Meaney intends her protagonist to pretend to be a vampire to get girls. In itself, the plot alone should yield ample opportunity to infuse commentary about the true nature of being an outsider – and the satisfaction that comes with forming an identity independent of social approval or expectation. In fact, her novel could celebrate individualism and uniqueness. Rather, the pages grow cold with jokes about abnormally-sized breasts on several female characters, both young and old, and an unresolved tension between what it means to be one’s self and embracing it rather than rejecting it.
The merits of this novel are few – but Meaney’s punchlines are often genuinely humorous and at times, gut-busters. Finn’s failed date with Celine, a French girl he meets online, is described as “the worst date since Adam and Eve took a stroll in the garden.” Sadly, this allusion is buried amidst several others that are far too recent to be effectively humorous to anyone over the age of 25 who has rejected Potter due to misplaced Christian abjuration or improper classification as a children’s hero.
In short, this book set out to achieve a big goal and missed it by several marks. Its graduate student author may have achieved little more than inspiring other young writers to pursue publishing. Given its overall lack of entertainment and impact, not even Bloodthirsty’s humor can quench the reader’s desire for a true rebel yell through the glamour and the fangs.
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