3/116 - Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

I can't believe I'm done.  This was one of those books that I was afraid would de-rail the whole project because it would be too boring or difficult and I'd get discouraged and seek shelter with Agatha Christie.  But I was, mercifully, wrong.  I tore through this book. I thought about it all the time, talked about it to relatives and friends who have never read and never intend to read it. During a period of very focused reading (like, several hours a day), I felt like all the characters were walking around with me, invisibly, a few get behind.

I think I get why people consider Tolstoy a genius. I'm not really into literary analysis, so I didn't see a lot of, like, symbolism and stuff like that. Granted, I didn't look for it.  But it didn't seem like the sort of book where symbolism and all that are vitally important to your understanding.  I read for pleasure and sometimes personal development, but I can't make myself read things that are boring, poorly written, or so obtuse that you have to have an English degree just to comprehend it.  Anna Karenina felt like an extremely complex Jane Austen novel, a really magnificent piece of psychological invention.  And, like a Jane Austen novel, it wasn't hard to understand or follow at all. The names were just longer. The only place I got even a bit muddled was during a politics session - but I have a suspicion that Tolstoy meant it to feel confusing because Levin couldn't make head or tail of it either.

It, more than almost any other book I have ever read, felt true.  The characters felt real, were just as confusing and interesting as real people.  Seeing into their minds was thrilling and odd.  Watching how things raveled and unraveled, watching people spiral into self-destruction or scrape their way into the light was fascinating.  And I've honestly never felt that way before.

I'm now EXTREMELY curious to see the recent movie adaptation Joe Wright made.  Besides the main casting - Anna, Karenin, Vronsky and Oblonsky - I have no idea who plays what. I know Olivia Williams is in there (I'm a big fan of hers) and I'm curious to see who she plays.  After reading it, I'm more and more convinced that Keira Knightley might have been extremely well cast.  We'll find out about that, I suppose.
I can completely see why Joe Wright chose to go the very stylized route with this.  I think it'd be too enormously overwhelming to do anything else, and you'd miss the opportunity to play with a lot of elements in a more overt way.

I miss carrying this book around my house.  Not because it was fun to show off my obviously fabulous taste in literature - I just miss holding it.  It was one of those books that just feels good to hold.  Solid, you know?

CONCLUSION: Well, yeah.

19/365 Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers - BEWARE: LOTS OF HOT AIR

I re-read this for the zillionth time.  Don't judge me, I had a bruiser of a day.  Sometimes you just need something familiar and comfortable.  I will say in my defense that I began on a selected poems of Emily Dickinson as well, and am going very slowly and carefully. So.

Brace yourself for a lot of jawing.  I do love this book so. 

I read somewhere that it's reckoned the first feminist detective novel.  Well, I don't know anything about feminism, but the ideas in the book seem fairly logical and, well, obvious to me, so I wonder if I'm a feminist myself.  I certainly agree with the idea that men and women are equal - equal, but not the same.  I don't know that that qualifier is in the book, but I believe it.  I suppose that if we got rid of gender and all it's accompanying hormones and what not, then we could take it off.  I feel like I've heard people, or heard of people, getting offended by the whole "equal, but not the same" thing.  Frankly, it would offend me more to be told that we are equal and the same.  I like my differentness. In quite a basic sense, claiming sameness seems like nonsense to me.  But I haven't given it too much thought.  I always tend to say, "well, you can't generalize about anything," and then change the subject.  I don't know enough about it.  Plus, I dislike arguments.  And I've never talked to anybody besides my mum and the wise ladies of my church who could truly make it a discussion and not and argument.  Most guys are too afraid of offending to say what they honestly think. 

And I really do think it's silly to talk about men and women in general terms, particularly regarding vocations - you might obviously meet a man and a woman who are more similar than two women.  Humans are so different. 

I realized this evening that I have rather strong personal feelings about children - and it tends to screw with my judgement.  I know it is not something to be proud of, but I don't really like children. Particularly small children.  Sounds ridiculous, coming from a 21 year old, but I never really have.  However, I firmly believe that, if I ever had my own kids, it would be very different.  I see an odd, fierce part of my character come out when I hear women complaining about their children, how inconvenient they are, and about how much daycare costs.  I know, I am not a mom.  I know, kids can be trying - heck, I know I was trying!  But when I hear that sort of thing, I have to admit that my first thought is, "well why on earth did you have them then?"  I know - I know - that if I once had children, something inside me would snap, and I would want to be with them always.  I don't mean that I'd try to keep them babies forever, or never let them leave the house - at least, I hope I won't.  But I am going to want to be very present in their early lives.  It would kill me not to be.  And this very strong conviction screws with my ability to be impartial.  I will never be able to talk to people about this sort of thing, because my personal feelings make me incapable of understanding opposing viewpoints.  I guess it's good to know that, but it feels rather awful.  I would so like to be detached and logical about everything. 

But all this is just gas.  Blah blah blah. 

This book has become one of the most personally important I've read this year.  Vocation is addressed, and, as you've probably noticed, that's been an issue for me lately.  And all my friends seem to be galloping down the aisle right and left.  I never imagined I'd be thinking about marriage and its implications at quite this early an age.  I know I'm not ready to be married yet.  And not only because I'm not quite settled in who I am, or ready for the responsibility, or even remotely financially solid.  I just think I'm not mature enough.  It's like... moving back home after you're married.  It might be fine for some people, but I know I'd want to be treated differently, but wouldn't behave differently, and then would be upset when my treatment matched my behavior.  Did that make one iota of sense?  I think I would go into a marriage wanting, needing to be treated like an equal - head on, going in like a fighter.  But I think I would actually go in with childish desires.  I'm not talking about "wives submit to your husbands" at all - I mean that I would probably try to replace my mom with my husband - even while I would consciously want nothing of the sort.  There are things I need to grow out of before I could enter into marriage on the footing I'd like.  I want to actually be a helper to my spouse - not a dead weight. (This makes me think of a whole side line about "helping" my spouse, but I really must go to bed, and nobody wants to hear it.  So I won't torture you any further, my dear blog.)

This is, of course, assuming that somebody on this planet would actually want to marry me.  A long shot, I know.  And I don't blame them.  

CONCLUSION:  I don't know what all this had to do with Gaudy Night.   It really is much better than my blabber would make anyone believe.   Makes you just weep to be at Oxford.  Also, it makes me wonder how hard it is to punt.  I would love to go punting, but I'd much rather be punted than punt.  If you can only look either "graceful or ghastly" doing it, I'd rather not take the chance.  Vanity, vanity. 

12/365 The Four Loves

"That our affections kill us not, nor dye." - Donne

I think I made up for Mrs. Tittlemouse.  By, George what a book.

I almost can't say anything because there is too much to say.  About 40 pages in I began tearing bits of newspaper to stick into the pages I just had to remember.    Yet:

And I was discriminating. 

I adore C.S. Lewis.  He can explain anything.  Just from a shallow enjoyment standpoint he is probably my favorite writer purely for his style or voice or whatever you call it.  A review on the back of this book declares that he, "writes with one of the most self-effacing and congenial pens in the language".  His writing makes me want to weep, it is so perfect.  

Anyways, I liked this book.  I accompanied every other page with a ghastly soundtrack of "Oh my gawsh that makes so much sense!" noises.  I really can't say much else, because if I try to just hit highlights we will be here all night.  (And I really made an effort to be diligent and was done reading by 11:00.  Be proud of me, imaginary readers.)  Much was explained to me.  Learned much, I did, Master Yoda.  I won't say it was a breeze to read - I had to go over a few sentences several times before I got them.  But then, my usual literary fare isn't particularly strenuous.  

His books always throw my balance off, or something like that.  They mess with the ideas I was standing on, make me really evaluate where I am.  Dash it all, they make me go wacko for at least a week.

For me, reading a C.S. Lewis book usually results in, among many other things:

1. Better living.  This is sort of to be expected. 

2. An increase in thoughtfulness.  Not, like, being nicer to people - I mean thinking more.  (Writing more coherently is, unfortunately, not a side effect.)

3. Exponential increase in my awareness of my own ignorance.  Just being confronted with how little I've actually read, thanks to his constant (though never obnoxious) literary references, makes me want to crawl off and hide under my blanket.  I was proud of vaguely recalling that I read Lovelace in British Lit a year or two ago  - and I couldn't tell you the name of the poem (yes, singular) we read to save my life.  By and large, I have no idea what he's talking about.  Most of the time I fancy that, for a slightly lower middle class kid, I had a jolly good education - but C.S. Lewis is very shattering.  Dorothy L. Sayers too.  Major ouch.

4. Lots of tweed-wearing.

Okay! I have to stop now or I never will.  

CONCLUSION:  HOW HAVE I NEVER READ THIS BEFORE?  It was rather good.  I love, love, love, C.S. Lewis.  Imaginary readers, if you haven't read it, I urge you to check this book out.  And everything else he's written too, while you're at it.  

6/365 A Wrinkle in Time

Good heavens, what a perfect book for a wet evening.  Truly splendid.  I sat in the bath and had an apple and a cup of extremely unhealthful chai tea, and pretended it was fall.   I've been taking piano lessons and learning "Simple Gifts," and it kept going through my head.  Sappy, sappy.

 I'd honestly forgotten how lovely this book is.  Such a delight.  I've asked my dear Mama, who works at one of the local libraries, to check out all of Madeleine L'Engle's other books for me.

 I said the other day that I was going to try to read all the books I own before getting any from the library books?  Well, I lied.

Gosh, what a good book.  This is a positively idiotic blog - I never do anything but say "Ooooh, I love it" or "not my thing" and never talk about any, you know, Deep Thoughts.  Or, better still, Themes or Symbols.  I am an absolute advocate of readerly pleasure. It is my pleasure not to think about Themes. And a very great pleasure this was.

I honestly can't think of much else to say.  This book has a something about it - I don't want to get all highfaluting (wonderful word) and silly, but it almost feels like a spark of eternity or life or something... vital .  All the kids' books I really love have the same sort of feel.  The Wind in the Willows, the Narnia books, The Hobbit.  They seem more real.  I don't know what I mean so don't ask, imaginary reader. 

Oh, let's just meander around for a while...  good, logical flow is so overrated.

I love characters who are just themselves.  The View From Saturday was similar in this regard, if I remember rightly.  People who treat life and others without flippancy.  These characters are not a bit flippant, which I think is what makes Charles Wallace's absorption into IT so terrifying.  Apart from the whole losing himself thing, his new cruel personality contrasts so starkly with the gentle chap he was before.

  

Ah! I could rhapsodize in this eloquent, poetic fashion for hours, but I must go to bed. 

To preserve some semblance of truth, I must admit that the copy I have has this cover:

And not the one above, which is nicer looking in my opinion.  A rant is brewing inside me (involving the appearances of the main characters), but I think I'm going to have to save it for another post on book covers.  I will say, however, that one of the less important reasons I dislike it is because it reminds me of The Garden of Earthly Delights.

Which itself has some very unpleasant associations.  I don't dislike Bosch, but I did have a rotten Art History course with a slightly wacko teacher who looked like a starved sheepdog and was possibly the most boring man on earth.

(Question: Do you put paintings in italics or quotes? I feel like it's italics, but I can't recall. Oh well.)

CONCLUSION: As I said, I am making mum get all L'Engle's other books for me.  I love this book.  It makes me want to be a better, more straightforward person.  So... yeah.

Goodnight, moon.

4/365 The Witches

"It doesn't matter who you are or what you look like, so long as somebody loves you."

Good golly, I love this book.  LOVE IT.  I could scream, I love it so much.  Yes, it's scary. Yes, terrible things happen to the main characters.  But it is hilarious.  I snort with laughter at every re-read.  And I never snort.  I can't even half-express how much I love Roald Dahl without screaming at you, my imaginary readers, in all caps and bombarding you with exclamation points that don't actually make sense, so I won't try.  Simply be assured that it is a lot of love.

And Quentin Blake's illustrations. AH! What a combo, right?  The books and pictures have become so completely smashed together in my head that I can't help thinking of one in terms of the other.  Quentin Blake puts so much character into his drawings.  I feel like a rat saying this (not a nice brown mouse), but there are some great illustrators I adore who just don't put much character into their characters.  The pictures are beautiful or charming or whatever, but when you look at, I don't know, three different books side by side, the children on the covers all look the same.  Different hair, different eye color - but basically the same pretty types.   Blake gives people giant noses and fat bellies and enormous ears.  Even the nice characters aren't idealized.   And I like that because it feels more true to life.  Or maybe I'm just full of hot air.   Anyways, if I ever end up working as an illustrator (which would be nice as I'm paying quite atrocious amounts of money to a college to learn how to do so), I hope the drawings I make have lots of personality in the same way.   I'd like to have a sort of basic, funny style that will allow me to do scary, black-comedy Lemony Snicket kinds of stories and sweet picture books.  

Well.  Another long tangent.  

Anyways, I love this book.  I love all Roald Dahl's kids books.  I can't decide which is my favorite.  James and the Giant Peach if a definite contender.  Ooh! If you, imaginary reader, are an audio book lover like moi, you must check out Jeremy Irons' reading of James and the Giant Peach.  It's a good contender for best book on tape ever, too.

CONCLUSION:  I am very fond of Roald Dahl's slightly bloodthirsty sense of humor, and think Quentin Blake expresses it perfectly in his drawings.  I want to go find more Roald Dahl booksRIGHTNOW, but I will restrain myself and try to read To The Lighthouse again, even though three pages in I realized I was dribbling drool without knowing it.  Maybe I was in the wrong mood for it or too tired or something.  I kept finishing sentences and feeling very proud, and then realizing, with a slump of the shoulders, that I couldn't remember what the front part of the sentence had been about.  Kid's book are just funner.  Yes, I said funner.