Tom--
Well, he never gets it. When I asked if he wanted to play catch last week, he thought we were going to throw a rock around instead of a baseball. I asked him once to fill up my water bottle, and he filled it, sure, but with anything he found interesting and it took forever long, then I had to dump out all the dirt and rocks and thorns and I had dirty water for the rest of the day. For a while, I thought it was because of he can't talk right, but then Gretel told me he can hear fine. Just can't talk right. Sheesh.
He's the reason for all this trouble, is what I'm trying to get at, sir. I had nothing to do with it, 'cept for it was me who broke the window.
Oh. The window by the back porch, sir. Not the front door, no way, that was all Tom.
See, he thought it'd be a laugh to, I don't know, to, ummm, to hide all your shoes around the house, sir.
Yes, sir.
I already said I don't know why! Ask him, not me!
Er, heh, that was me too, sir. See, I'd dropped my daddy's ring, his class ring, his class of 1915 class ring, sir, the one with the ruby in it to match the school's colors, sir. The other color was purple, he told me, but only sissy men--
No, sir. I think I dropped it down the heating vent or something when we were looking for places to hide your shoes. Have you seen it? Did it fly out at your face and that's why ... never mind. If you see it, you should tell me right away because my daddy said I could have it for the week as long as I didn't lend it to Tom so I've got until then to find it but you won't let me look for it in your house, which is where it is, so that means you've got to look for me or else daddy won't let me outside ever again.
Please, sir? I can't fix your window and your heater and your doorknob and all the other stuff if I am grounded, and Tom can't do anything right because he can't talk right so his parents never taught him nothin'.
No, he goes to school, sir. We sit next to each other.
Okay, sir, but you don't know what you're gettin' yourself into by asking us to work together to fix everything. Tom hasn't ever fixed a thing except a sandwich. He'll probably bring peanut butter and bread or else his lucky butter knife, which he has because his daddy won't let him have a real knife, instead of bringing a hammer or nails or a screwdriver or something.
Could you maybe look for the ring while I am gone, sir? I have to go find Tom. He could be clear to the Denny's by now.
Thank you, sir. You're a great neighbor, sir.
No, I don't know where your slippers ended up. Maybe check the bathtub.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Saturday, June 20, 2015
The Racial Identity Movement
If you've been following the news at all, this face -- there's just one -- will look familiar. For those unfamiliar with this woman, her name is Rachel Dolezal, and she is white but, as she puts it, "identifies" as black.
She's gotten a lot of flack over that, the most serious being her life falling apart. She's lost her NAACP position and her job, and her old university is questioning whether she misled them back in the day about her race.
This may seem odd to say, but I think she looks better as a black woman. It suits her. But then the question comes up, "Can you just become a different race?"
I'm sure that's what part of this is about. Someone lying about her race would only merit one or two headlines, but public outcry can merit so many more. It's the public's anger and incredulity that has made this a bigger story. So I can only assume the underlying anger is black people thinking she doesn't deserve to be black, she didn't earn it, and white people thinking she's a big fat liar who put on a new face because she thought it'd be cool and she'd go further.
I know these are just assumptions, but they lead to my point, which is this: If we live in a society that allows one to choose their style of dress, lifestyle, religion and even gender, why can someone not also choose their race?
I see this as possibly the next stage of the human rights movement. After the gay marriage and gay rights movement dies down a bit, we'll turn to allowing people to choose their own race, which is indeed part of their identity. After all, how silly is the phrase, "I identify as black," after Bruce Jenner told the world, "I identify as a woman," and the world cheered him on (at least, the loudest people seem to)? It is not that big of a logical leap. It's little more than a baby step.
I don't know whether I see a problem with deciding one's own race or not. It could be looked at as embracing your true self or as turning your back on your ancestors and choosing someone else's.
Perhaps someone will pull the racist card and say we're all racist for making fun of a woman who wants to be a different race (blacks are racist because she's white and not one of them, whites are racist because she's decided to be black).
Perhaps someone will say we're pigeon-holing her, taking away her right to be who and what she wants to be.
I'm putting this on a reading and writing blog for a number of reasons. 1) It's my blog, I can do what I want with it. 2) It's my blog, I don't have another to use. 3) If you want to write science fiction, or contemporary fiction, you have to pay attention to stuff like this.
Science fiction is about looking at the world as it is and applying a slippery slope. The essential question is "What if?" My husband pointed out that the Rachel Dolezal thing could lead to a science fiction novel where everyone can change their skin color just like we do with hair now. Race and identity become a giant gray area and ...
The technology is there if we cared enough to make it happen, after all.
Critically think about the news and you will find story ideas. Critically think about the news, and you may discover you're a psychic. I think we'll have a race movement in a decade or so. Prediction made.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Bracing Myself to Enter a Poetry Contest
Confession: I have entered fewer than five -- much fewer than five -- writing contests in my life. But I am planning on entering another soon. A poetry one, to be specific.
I don't enter them because I don't want someone to tell me what I sometimes fear: I am not all that good. Who wants to get their hopes up only to hear that they had no chance of winning? On top of that, this is my writing we are talking about. That stuff is important to me. I worked hard on them and they carry a lot of me in them.
But if a writer is going to move forward, someone else needs to be reading their work. I have submitted a couple things to literary journals without success (though one person did write me a full-length letter in response, which means it was good and they realized it), and I suppose I did get to present a couple stories at National Undergraduate Literature Conferences. Which is pretty cool. I also won regional awards for my editorials in college. My boss thinks I should submit my column next year for a journalism award, too.
Basically, I'm not a lost cause. Just a timid cause.
I don't think I've mentioned my column yet. It's called the Front Porch, and in it I relay small bits of happy news in a chatty way. If someone becomes an Eagle Scout, gets a scholarship, makes the dean's list, wins a snowmobile, needs volunteers, you get the idea, it goes into my column.
So I suppose this is a dual-purpose blog post (I didn't realize I forgot to write a post last week! Whoops). First, to tell you I am preparing myself to enter another contest, and second, to tell you I'm a columnist of sorts these days.
To read my Front Porch column, visit www.idahopress.com/heyipt/ and look for headlines saying Front Porch. I've gotten some negative feedback, but mostly the community seems to enjoy it.
As for which poem I am submitting, I'm not sure yet. I have reached out to a writer friend for some help, because the contest hasn't been around for more than a year. Without knowledge of what sort of poems they prefer, I'm at a loss. I'm thinking of entering my poem about Nisha, the Teddy Bear Buttons paragraph fiction (pretending it's prose poetry, which maybe it is), or this poem, which is called Relics.
There is a red, wooden swing
hanging from the lone chestnut tree
that shadows my front yard.
Rachel, the girl with naturally curly hair
who loves mustard yellow,
made it with a friend
before she left for Russia.
Moscow, where she learned to adore
matching scarves and hats,
old window frames,
and long train rides,
but not so much the food —
except for borscht (beet soup),
blini (pancakes),
and smetana (sour cream).
The red swing stayed with me;
I brought it in during the winter
to protect the wood from snow,
and in the summer,
my landlord’s two daughters played on it.
She also left me with a painting
of a rainstorm over a bridge that traverses a river,
beside which two people walk,
one in red and one in light blue.
Neither one is holding an umbrella,
but they don’t seem to be in a hurry
to escape the rain pelting the walkway.
I don't enter them because I don't want someone to tell me what I sometimes fear: I am not all that good. Who wants to get their hopes up only to hear that they had no chance of winning? On top of that, this is my writing we are talking about. That stuff is important to me. I worked hard on them and they carry a lot of me in them.
But if a writer is going to move forward, someone else needs to be reading their work. I have submitted a couple things to literary journals without success (though one person did write me a full-length letter in response, which means it was good and they realized it), and I suppose I did get to present a couple stories at National Undergraduate Literature Conferences. Which is pretty cool. I also won regional awards for my editorials in college. My boss thinks I should submit my column next year for a journalism award, too.
Basically, I'm not a lost cause. Just a timid cause.
I don't think I've mentioned my column yet. It's called the Front Porch, and in it I relay small bits of happy news in a chatty way. If someone becomes an Eagle Scout, gets a scholarship, makes the dean's list, wins a snowmobile, needs volunteers, you get the idea, it goes into my column.
So I suppose this is a dual-purpose blog post (I didn't realize I forgot to write a post last week! Whoops). First, to tell you I am preparing myself to enter another contest, and second, to tell you I'm a columnist of sorts these days.
To read my Front Porch column, visit www.idahopress.com/heyipt/ and look for headlines saying Front Porch. I've gotten some negative feedback, but mostly the community seems to enjoy it.
As for which poem I am submitting, I'm not sure yet. I have reached out to a writer friend for some help, because the contest hasn't been around for more than a year. Without knowledge of what sort of poems they prefer, I'm at a loss. I'm thinking of entering my poem about Nisha, the Teddy Bear Buttons paragraph fiction (pretending it's prose poetry, which maybe it is), or this poem, which is called Relics.
There is a red, wooden swing
hanging from the lone chestnut tree
that shadows my front yard.
Rachel, the girl with naturally curly hair
who loves mustard yellow,
made it with a friend
before she left for Russia.
Moscow, where she learned to adore
matching scarves and hats,
old window frames,
and long train rides,
but not so much the food —
except for borscht (beet soup),
blini (pancakes),
and smetana (sour cream).
The red swing stayed with me;
I brought it in during the winter
to protect the wood from snow,
and in the summer,
my landlord’s two daughters played on it.
She also left me with a painting
of a rainstorm over a bridge that traverses a river,
beside which two people walk,
one in red and one in light blue.
Neither one is holding an umbrella,
but they don’t seem to be in a hurry
to escape the rain pelting the walkway.
Monday, June 1, 2015
The Quiet of Me
At the time of dreams,
I empty my mind,
Sweep it clean of the debris of the day,
Allow the stress to stream from my fingertips
And sink through the mattress --
Away,
Away
From my hunched shoulders
And embryonic crows feet.
I let the debris, the stress, the to-do lists
Fill my dustpan and pour out
Into the night, creating
stars outside the window
of my soul,
Separate,
Separate
From my whited canvas
And ujjayi breath.
I sit in an empty mind
Brilliant as the clouds
And spinning as a comet through space
The space filled with stars that were
Mine,
Mine
As a secret place in the forest
And an heirloom skeleton key.
Perhaps
Perhaps
This is the space where space
Meets soul and dreams
Trip lightly
Behind --
But away, separate.
Mine, perhaps.
I empty my mind,
Sweep it clean of the debris of the day,
Allow the stress to stream from my fingertips
And sink through the mattress --
Away,
Away
From my hunched shoulders
And embryonic crows feet.
I let the debris, the stress, the to-do lists
Fill my dustpan and pour out
Into the night, creating
stars outside the window
of my soul,
Separate,
Separate
From my whited canvas
And ujjayi breath.
I sit in an empty mind
Brilliant as the clouds
And spinning as a comet through space
The space filled with stars that were
Mine,
Mine
As a secret place in the forest
And an heirloom skeleton key.
Perhaps
Perhaps
This is the space where space
Meets soul and dreams
Trip lightly
Behind --
But away, separate.
Mine, perhaps.
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Anna Karenina - Rewrite!
I thought it might be fun to rewrite scenes from stories, using my own words, to see the differences. Since I just began reading Anna Karenina, I chose the beginning of that book as my first attempt. But when I thought about how to write it, my mind immediately turned to a script instead of straight prose. So that is what I give you: Elizabeth Thomas's Anna Karenina, Scenes 1 and 2. Please note that I changed the names and took other artistic liberties. The plot remains the same (so far as I can tell, but I haven't read the whole book so maybe I am wrong).
Scene I
Scene: A family dining room set with a table and a large number of chairs. A painting by Andy Warhol decorates one wall along with a handsome grandfather clock and a window overlooking the street, which is of the crowded townhouse variety.
Enter Travis, stage right. He is dressed in a suit, with the coat slung over his shoulder jauntily, and his hair has been freshly oiled. He yawns while walking over to one of the chairs, then sits down and turns his head to glance out the window.
Scene: A family dining room set with a table and a large number of chairs. A painting by Andy Warhol decorates one wall along with a handsome grandfather clock and a window overlooking the street, which is of the crowded townhouse variety.
Enter Travis, stage right. He is dressed in a suit, with the coat slung over his shoulder jauntily, and his hair has been freshly oiled. He yawns while walking over to one of the chairs, then sits down and turns his head to glance out the window.
Enter Maid from upstage. She is carrying a tray laden with breakfast foods, with a pitcher of milk in her other hand.
Maid: Good morning, sir. (Places plate down.)
Travis smiles his thanks and picks up his fork.
Maid: Well aren’t you going to ask about the missus?
Travis: (Puts down fork with sigh) How is she, Abie?
Maid: Good morning, sir. (Places plate down.)
Travis smiles his thanks and picks up his fork.
Maid: Well aren’t you going to ask about the missus?
Travis: (Puts down fork with sigh) How is she, Abie?
Maid: She’s up already, sir.
Travis: Ah. (Looks down at meal in obvious discomfort) Is she in?
Maid: Right now she is, sir, yes sir. In her bedroom. Shall I tell her to expect you?
Travis: Can it be helped?
Maid: Not if you’re going to be eating another meal today, sir. Cook’s packed everything up and has left. He said he couldn’t take any more of it. And I may be following him soon, sir, if you don’t settle her down quickly.
Travis: All because of that blasted smile. But what was I to do when confronted like that? I hadn’t prepared myself to grovel and I hadn’t prepared a lie to smooth her feathers.
Maid: Sir.
Travis: You are right, Abie. I will see her after … after my morning coffee.
Travis smiles and lets out a small laugh as Maid nods and exits stage left.
Travis: (Eating while reading through his mail) Work, bills, calling cards. (Writes on one page) Sanctuary, I say. (Finishes food, turns to newspaper and flips it open with a pleasing snap.) “Man sues neighbor for gopher problem.” That must be Pharynt, he always was a little daft. Ah yes, it is Pharynt. I will have to call on him tomorrow to console him over the inevitable—
Maid enters, stage left. She looks frazzled to an extreme.
Travis: Ah. (Looks down at meal in obvious discomfort) Is she in?
Maid: Right now she is, sir, yes sir. In her bedroom. Shall I tell her to expect you?
Travis: Can it be helped?
Maid: Not if you’re going to be eating another meal today, sir. Cook’s packed everything up and has left. He said he couldn’t take any more of it. And I may be following him soon, sir, if you don’t settle her down quickly.
Travis: All because of that blasted smile. But what was I to do when confronted like that? I hadn’t prepared myself to grovel and I hadn’t prepared a lie to smooth her feathers.
Maid: Sir.
Travis: You are right, Abie. I will see her after … after my morning coffee.
Travis smiles and lets out a small laugh as Maid nods and exits stage left.
Travis: (Eating while reading through his mail) Work, bills, calling cards. (Writes on one page) Sanctuary, I say. (Finishes food, turns to newspaper and flips it open with a pleasing snap.) “Man sues neighbor for gopher problem.” That must be Pharynt, he always was a little daft. Ah yes, it is Pharynt. I will have to call on him tomorrow to console him over the inevitable—
Maid enters, stage left. She looks frazzled to an extreme.
Maid: You will want your coffee now. (Leaves, upstage, returns with cup and saucer.) Now don’t wait for it to cool down, sir. (Sets it down in front of him, hovers)
Travis: (Throws down paper) Oh, that Monday had not happened!
Maid: Not to mention all those days before, of course. (Travis looks confused, then his face registers understanding) Drink up, sir. Can’t let it get cold, lots to do today.
Travis: (Shoos her off a little, blows on coffee, takes a sip and grimaces.) I see you made this yourself, Abie.
Maid: Just like my papa taught me, sir. Have you finished, sir? Let me take that, then, and you know where the missus’ bedroom is. (Moves upstage, turns toward Travis one last time.) I’d skip knocking and then duck when you enter, sir. You know her aim is sharp. (Maid exits, upstage)
Travis looks at watch, looks out window, sighs, starts to pace the room.
Travis: That blasted smile. (Pulls some liquor out of his suit coat pocket, takes a swig, exits stage left.
END SCENE.
Scene II
Scene: Gloria’s bedroom. Clothes are strewn about the floor and bed, and two suitcases open on the bed. A vanity off to one side has various beauty products and mementos scattered on it. A framed portrait of Gloria and Travis hangs at the head of the bed with its glass cracked.
Travis: Honey?
Gloria shoots him a look of scorn. She has been crying.
Travis: Oh, my wife, mother of my children and caretaker of my home! What have I done?
Travis rushes toward Gloria, who slaps him across the face and fights to get away from him.
Travis: (Throws down paper) Oh, that Monday had not happened!
Maid: Not to mention all those days before, of course. (Travis looks confused, then his face registers understanding) Drink up, sir. Can’t let it get cold, lots to do today.
Travis: (Shoos her off a little, blows on coffee, takes a sip and grimaces.) I see you made this yourself, Abie.
Maid: Just like my papa taught me, sir. Have you finished, sir? Let me take that, then, and you know where the missus’ bedroom is. (Moves upstage, turns toward Travis one last time.) I’d skip knocking and then duck when you enter, sir. You know her aim is sharp. (Maid exits, upstage)
Travis looks at watch, looks out window, sighs, starts to pace the room.
Travis: That blasted smile. (Pulls some liquor out of his suit coat pocket, takes a swig, exits stage left.
END SCENE.
Scene II
Scene: Gloria’s bedroom. Clothes are strewn about the floor and bed, and two suitcases open on the bed. A vanity off to one side has various beauty products and mementos scattered on it. A framed portrait of Gloria and Travis hangs at the head of the bed with its glass cracked.
Travis: Honey?
Gloria shoots him a look of scorn. She has been crying.
Travis: Oh, my wife, mother of my children and caretaker of my home! What have I done?
Travis rushes toward Gloria, who slaps him across the face and fights to get away from him.
Gloria: Get away from me, you … you … you stranger!
Travis: (Begins to cry) Wife—
Gloria: Exactly! WIFE. But no more. I am taking our children and we are leaving. Today. I just need to finish packing our bags and we will be gone so that you may go on as the adulterer you are without corrupting what is most innocent and precious!
Travis: Have pity on me, Gloria! I have done what is most detestable to you; if you but tell me what must be done so that I may regain your love and be the husband you most deserve, I will do it! Tell me what must be done, be my judge, bestow justice and mercy as you will. I stand ready to do all to gain worthiness. (Gloria looks like she may soften) I never should have smiled when you confronted—
Gloria: (Face hardens abruptly and she turns away) You will be late for work. Go.
Travis: But my wife—
Gloria: Is leaving you. Good day, sir. I hope we shall continue to be the perfect strangers I have discovered that we indeed are, even after 10 years of marriage. And I hope we are greater strangers in all time to come.
Maid enters.
Maid: Missus, Lucy demands she wear her pink dress today.
Gloria: Tell her not to argue.
Maid: I tried to tell her to wear the yellow, but she won’t even—
Gloria: (Sighs) I will go to talk with her. (Gives Travis cold stare)
Travis, Maid exit. Gloria allows herself to crumple to the bed, sobbing.
END SCENE.
Travis: (Begins to cry) Wife—
Gloria: Exactly! WIFE. But no more. I am taking our children and we are leaving. Today. I just need to finish packing our bags and we will be gone so that you may go on as the adulterer you are without corrupting what is most innocent and precious!
Travis: Have pity on me, Gloria! I have done what is most detestable to you; if you but tell me what must be done so that I may regain your love and be the husband you most deserve, I will do it! Tell me what must be done, be my judge, bestow justice and mercy as you will. I stand ready to do all to gain worthiness. (Gloria looks like she may soften) I never should have smiled when you confronted—
Gloria: (Face hardens abruptly and she turns away) You will be late for work. Go.
Travis: But my wife—
Gloria: Is leaving you. Good day, sir. I hope we shall continue to be the perfect strangers I have discovered that we indeed are, even after 10 years of marriage. And I hope we are greater strangers in all time to come.
Maid enters.
Maid: Missus, Lucy demands she wear her pink dress today.
Gloria: Tell her not to argue.
Maid: I tried to tell her to wear the yellow, but she won’t even—
Gloria: (Sighs) I will go to talk with her. (Gives Travis cold stare)
Travis, Maid exit. Gloria allows herself to crumple to the bed, sobbing.
END SCENE.
Saturday, May 23, 2015
What's Elizabeth Reading? ...S.L. Farrell
Foils, or characters built for the sake of illuminating particular characteristics, are handy when done well. Actually, I can't imagine them being done badly, unless they were too similar. Lesson: use them in your fiction. Other parallels you may not have noticed before but are probably more familiar with:
Harry Potter: orphan who discovers he is magical, searches for family
Voldemort: orphan who discovers he is magical, searches for power
Eponine: Raised by parents who are cons, shuns their ethics, falls in love with Marius, dies
Cosette: Raised by foster parents who are cons, shuns their ethics and starts new life, falls in love with Marius, marries him
Megamind: Alien with supernatural abilities, raised on Earth, tries to reach potential and realizes it isn't all that great, changes his life
Metro Man: Alien with supernatural abilities, raised on Earth, tries to reach potential and realizes it isn't all that great, changes his life
In case you didn't follow that, the first example is from the Harry Potter series, the second is from Les Mis and the third is from Megamind.
Sometimes authors use the opposite of parallels - I'd call them perpendiculars, but that sounds weird - to much the same effect: It still gives something to compare the character with and measure growth. Also, using parallels and perpendiculars is an easy way to build multiple character arcs that fit well together. A famous perpendicular (I've resigned myself to using the term for now):
Cinderella: Has a terrible stepmother who makes her work like a slave, has to go to ball undercover, has a sweet personality, marries prince
Stepsisters: Mother still alive who treats them well, get to flounce off to ball in grand style, have terrible personalities, then end up with their feelings and pride hurt (or live with their feet all carved up, your choice of ending).
Back to Farrell's book. If you want to study parallels, this is a good one to look at. Be aware that it has a sharp, and I mean sharp, learning curve that may make you want to put the book down. It is a fantasy novel set in another world, and the author has chosen to rename nearly everything. The king isn't a king, he's a kraljiki; mothers aren't mothers, they are matarhs; a guard is a garda; and it goes on and on. Many of the new words have roots in real languages (the castle is the palais, for example), so that may give you a leg up.
Something else I wanted to talk about a bit was the commander of the "good guys." Neither side is all that good or bad. Either way, we are introduced to this character when he tortures someone and we watch him splat someone's hand with a brass hammer of sorts. It was shudder-worthy. Sergei is also dehumanized slightly by his lack of a regular nose; his is a metal one that is silver. With that setup, I was all ready to hate the character. By the end of the book, though, I was looking for ways to defend him. How did the author manage that? I have never seen that done before without the character themselves changing or without being won over by charm and wit. Sergei is not at all a rogue. He reminds me more of Inspector Javere, to bring up Les Mis again. I think we come to excuse Sergei for two reasons: we never watch him torture someone again, though we know he does it, and we come to understand his version of patriotism. My husband says he is in the extreme order quadrant of evil, but I don't think it can to easily be simplified. Keep an eye on Sergei if you read A Magic of Twilight, and keep this in mind when you are building your own casts of characters. Could someone be excusably evil?
This is a book with an innovative magic system, which I always appreciate, and good characters. The possibly unnecessarily thorough world-building (I haven't decided whether it was justified or not, because it does make it feel like a different culture even though it is all familiar) could be a deal-breaker for some, but other than that, I'd recommend it.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Muriel Barbery
Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog. I have had it on my to-read list ever since I watched the movie. Thankfully, that was at least a couple years ago and I had only hazy memories of the storyline. That meant I was able to rediscover the story while I read.
My conclusion: This is Barbery's masterpiece.
My other conclusion: Don't read this book unless you have had a friend or loved one die. It won't hit you nearly as hard, because you won't be able to understand it as much. I have a feeling, also, that this would make a good book for someone who is in mourning. Just a suspicion, so if you try it out, please let me know whether I'm right.
I call this Barbery's masterpiece, without having read any of her other works, because of the topics it addresses: art, beauty, a reason to go on living, death. I even find myself wondering if Barbery has depression or has been suicidal before, and if it isn't her, then she must know people well who have been through that. It seems like the book is trying to answer the question, "Why is this life worth it?"
It doesn't answer the question with family, religion, or a legacy. The answer it gives, ultimately, has many layers and is too complicated to explain in a blog post. I will do my best to explain one of the answers.
Life is worth it because of camellias. There is a youth in the book (spoiler alert to a subplot) who is so far gone on drugs that he is emaciated and not all there, ever. One of the main characters, Renee, is standing in her home when she sees this youth staring at her camellias for an irregularly long length of time. Eventually, he asks her what they are called. She tells him and he nods to himself, then leaves. We don't get much more about this until the end of the book, when we see the youth again. He's turned his life around, and it's because whenever he would be in the darkest abyss, he would remember about camellias. Their pure beauty, it would seem, gave him something to hold onto to pull himself out.
The book highlights the small moments we may miss if we aren't looking closely enough, and maybe my generation misses them altogether a lot of the time. It's those moments where the rain just finished falling and the sun comes out to set the world aglow. It's those moments where you wake up next to the person you love and realize that love over again. It's those moments where you are walking down the sidewalk and smell a barbecue. It's those moments where everything seems right and beautiful. They are small, but they are there, and they are what we must look for if we are to realize the beauty of life itself. That is a lesson taught in this book.
I'd like to give a shoutout to the translator, too, for absolute brilliance. Her name is Alison Anderson. I almost thought Barbery had translated it herself, everything was so spot on. I wasn't comparing the two texts, but it felt right in English, as if it hadn't been translated at all. The one thing I think is missing can't be made up for: the difference between the French vous and tu, which both translate to the English "you." Vous is used in formal settings, when you are showing respect or professionalism or just don't know the other person well. It is also the plural. Tu is used with your friends and loved ones, those you are familiar with. I have a sneaking suspicion that the lack of an English equivalent to these meant an entire dimension of the story was dropped. Class status is a theme in the book.
The translator did justice to the work, however, and it is well-written and put together. While I am talking about the writing, be aware that there are large doses of philosophy that are hard to digest at the speed one usually digests fiction. Also, look for the back-and-forth between the two viewpoint characters, which is entirely accidental since their stories don't intersect much until a good portion of the story is done. For instance, there is a Renee segment that ends with a discussion of tea-drinking, and the next section, by Paloma, starts out by discussing coffee-drinking and how she prefers tea.
I want to keep talking about it, because it was such a beautiful book, but I don't want to spoil anything! So go read it and comment to let me know what you thought.
My conclusion: This is Barbery's masterpiece.
My other conclusion: Don't read this book unless you have had a friend or loved one die. It won't hit you nearly as hard, because you won't be able to understand it as much. I have a feeling, also, that this would make a good book for someone who is in mourning. Just a suspicion, so if you try it out, please let me know whether I'm right.
I call this Barbery's masterpiece, without having read any of her other works, because of the topics it addresses: art, beauty, a reason to go on living, death. I even find myself wondering if Barbery has depression or has been suicidal before, and if it isn't her, then she must know people well who have been through that. It seems like the book is trying to answer the question, "Why is this life worth it?"
It doesn't answer the question with family, religion, or a legacy. The answer it gives, ultimately, has many layers and is too complicated to explain in a blog post. I will do my best to explain one of the answers.
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| A camellia. |
The book highlights the small moments we may miss if we aren't looking closely enough, and maybe my generation misses them altogether a lot of the time. It's those moments where the rain just finished falling and the sun comes out to set the world aglow. It's those moments where you wake up next to the person you love and realize that love over again. It's those moments where you are walking down the sidewalk and smell a barbecue. It's those moments where everything seems right and beautiful. They are small, but they are there, and they are what we must look for if we are to realize the beauty of life itself. That is a lesson taught in this book.
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| This girl on the left is Paloma. |
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| And this is Renee with her cat, Leo. |
The translator did justice to the work, however, and it is well-written and put together. While I am talking about the writing, be aware that there are large doses of philosophy that are hard to digest at the speed one usually digests fiction. Also, look for the back-and-forth between the two viewpoint characters, which is entirely accidental since their stories don't intersect much until a good portion of the story is done. For instance, there is a Renee segment that ends with a discussion of tea-drinking, and the next section, by Paloma, starts out by discussing coffee-drinking and how she prefers tea.
I want to keep talking about it, because it was such a beautiful book, but I don't want to spoil anything! So go read it and comment to let me know what you thought.
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