6 posts tagged “bookworming”

I really think that I should stop taking book recommendations from my peers, because I almost invariably end up hating whatever it is that they decide I will like. It all started back when my ex-boyfriend demanded that I take up reading his style of novels, which largely consisted of the semi-coherent drivel known to some as Bukowski and Vonnegut, along with the even less coherent drivel of their imitators, such as Chuck Palahniuk. I'm sure I'm not being fair to Bukowski and Vonnegut when I write this, but, like with Hemingway, I have a really hard time swallowing blatant misogyny (ha!) in the books that I read. I will give Vonnegut credit for the rare occasion that his novels make sense, at which point they are freaking brilliant, but those moments are few and far between. I find very few redeeming values in Bukowski, at least in terms of his prose. I waver on the quality of his poetry; it always seems to hinge on whther or not I'm in the mood to hear about heroin-glazed gay orgies and half-baked ruminations on Zen Buddhism.

Palahniuk's writing, on the other hand, nearly always makes me crave death (as does the horde of his admirers who go on and on about how original he is without even a hint of irony). I inexplicably love Jim Carroll. I'm not sure if it's by association with Leonardo DiCaprio (I don't care what none of y'all say, I still love him) or if his work just elicits an emotional reaction. Structurally, it's not all that great and he shamelessly rips off Bukowski, but he has this naive sincerity that gives me the warm fuzzies.

Anyway. My dealings with that guy should have taught me to ignore the literary advice of others. If not with him, through my best friend from high school, who loves Salinger despite the indisputable fact that, apart from Franny And Zooey, which was vaguely tolerable, everything he's ever published has been messy, loose conglomerates of whiny, rich teenagers (that you just want to hit with a blunt object), inane or nonexistent plots, perpetual self-inflicted social alienaton of the most obnoxiously solipsistic variety and, again, half-baked ruminations on various forms of Buddhism. (Although I will give him credit for not being intellectually lazy and using forms other than Zen.) They're both English majors. When i take advice from my friends who aren't familiar with literature, even worse things happen- mainly, I end up reading trash or "feel-good" drivel and then having to find a polite way to inform them that OHMYGODTHATWASAWFUL without making them feel stupid or wounded.

Case in point: The DaVinci Code, which was so shit-tastically-written that I couldn't make it past the first fifty pages. I would have slogged my way through it had I not realized that it was yet another inane dramatization of the Gnostic heresy that had IRREFUTABLE PROOF that the blood of Jesus is alive and well in society today. I read the last twenty pages, returned it to whoever lent it to me, mumbled something noncommittal about not being that interested in Christianity (since I am, you know, not a Christian), and ran away quickly. The only good thing that came out of The DaVinci Code was the hilarious reaction of fundamentalist Christians, which may have been even better than the times they freaked out over the Harry Potter books. Heh.

I can now add a new book to my illustrious lists of horrible popular novels that have wasted my time: The Life of Pi. It's unfortunate. I wanted to like it, I really did, and it started out so promisingly. The narrator was charming, his commentary was insightful although it did fall prey to some degree of authorial preaching, and it was mostly entertaining. However, after about fifty pages of being stranded on the ocean with a tiger, I started to wish I were dead. I kept losing my place (thanks to how unbelievably repetitive it was), and found myself increasingly frsutrated with what had formerly been vaguely endearing childish idealism evolving into preachy inanities that made my head split along with a series of bizarre, nonsensical plot twists (for seriously- a Frenchman? A man-eating algae island? That was full of Meerkats?) that made my inner hater of all things bad fanfic run screaming into the night.

I then hit the last twenty pages and experienced a certain rage-filled vertigo that usually only comes when i read Russian novels-- the horrifying realization that I have just wasted several hundreds of pages of my reading life on something that could have been reasonably condensed to fifty pages without sacrificing the literary quality of the novel. I call it Literature: Raskolnikov Style and discovered it my senior year of high school, when my friends and I all had to read Crime and Punishment while on Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale. Worst beach read ever.

Next on my list? Finishing The Cider House Rules. At least I know I won't end up hating it.

The Cider House Rules
Life of Pi
Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell them: A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right
Backlash

If only being an English major didn't get in the way of my reading...

I always make a ton of these, so I've separated them into categories.

I. Education-Related Resolutions
A. Finish my thesis.
B. Graduate
C...Magna Cum Laude.
D. Finish my grad school applications.
E. Get into grad school.

II. Not Strictly Education-Related, but Nevertheless Intellectual Resolutions
A. Read more outside of class. This includes literature, non-fiction, philosophy, and feminist theory. The older I get, the more I realize that I need to take it upon myself to educate myself.
B. Find a school of feminist thought that suits me better and pisses me off less than radical feminism.
C. Use this thing more. It makes my brain feel all limber and stretchy, especially since I have so few intellectual conversations these days.
D. Start paying better attention to current events.

III. Personal/Health-Related Resolutions
A. Continue working on last year's resolution of "Quit taking [unnecessary] shit off people."
B. Pay more attention to my appearance [because, normally, I don't].
C. Eat healthier.
D. Stop consuming soda. Even the diet kind.
E. Make a workout schedule and stick to it.
F. Make some friends who don't suck.
G. Date guys that don't suck.
H. Take vitamins.

IV. Miscellaneous
A. Write at least five crochet patterns.
B. Knit a sweater.
C. Go camping/hiking at least once.
D. Learn to kayak.
E. Get a decent job.

Books to read:

-The Mommy Myth by Susan J. Douglas and Meredith W. Michaels*
-The Cider House Rules by John Irving.*
-Rush Limbaugh is a Big, Fat Idiot by Al Franken.*
-The World of Tibetan Buddhism by the Dalai Lama.
-The Transformed Mind by the Dalai Lama.
-The Meaning of Life by the Dalai Lama.
-The Life of Pi by Yann Martel.*
-Skipping Towards Gomorrah: The Seven Deadly Sins and Pursuit of Happiness in America by Dan Savage*

* = books I've already started.

Knitting/Crocheting Projects to Complete:

-Big pink purse. */$
-Funky black hat. *
-Gray and Noro purse (for me!)
-Funky crocheted hat to match my similarly funky scarf. $
-Kitty Hat. $
-A calorimetry.
-A baby blanket that I've been working on since September. *
-Overly bright Malabrigo messenger bag. #
-A funky blue hat.
-A marbled entrelac scarf. #
-Possibly a sweater.

I know it looks like a lot, but most of these have already been started:

# = Started
* = Lots of Progress
$ = Nearly Finished

Schoolwork:

-Work on Thesis (I want rough drafts of my first two chapters)
-Start reading for next semester (Lots and Lots of Shakespeare, it seems. The reading list for that class is so intimidating.)

I found out a few days ago that my family has put me on Grandmother Duty. My Gran just had knee replacement surgery and needs someone to keep an eye on her and cart her around town, and since I don't have a job, I've been volunteered. I'm fine with that. It means I can actually get something done instead of waiting tables during the holidays (which is pretty much the worst job EVER).

It'll be a nice break. I'm really looking forward to it.

Back in another life when I was a creative writing major, one of my professors told me that my work resembled this story. I looked it up on Google, and what I read has stayed with me ever since.

After sex, you curl up like a shrimp, something deep inside you ruined, slammed in a place that sickens at slamming, and slowly you fill up with an overwhelming sadness, an elusive gaping worry. You don’t try to explain it, filled with the knowledge that it’s nothing after all, everything filling up finally and absolutely with death. After the briskness of loving, loving stops. And you roll over with death stretched out alongside you like a feather boa, or a snake, light as air, and you . . . you don’t even ask for anything or try to say something to him because it’s obviously your own damn fault. You haven’t been able to—to what? To open your heart. You open your legs but can't, or don't dare anymore, to open your heart. It starts this way:

You stare into their eyes. They flash like all the stars are out. They look at you seriously, their eyes at a low bum and their hands no matter what starting off shy and with such a gentle touch that the only thing you can do is take that tenderness and let yourself be swept away. When, with one attentive finger they tuck the hair behind your ear, you— You do everything they want.

Then comes after. After when they don't look at you. They scratch their balls, stare at the ceiling. Or if they do turn, their gaze is altogether changed. They are surprised. They turn casually to look at you, distracted, and get a mild distracted surprise. You're gone. Their black look tells you that the girl they were fucking is not there anymore. You seem to have disappeared.

Looking for meaning in something inherently meaningless is a waste of time.

Can you tell I'm procrastinating? I have eighteen pages' worth of papers due on Thursday and Friday. I don't feel like writing them right now, so I instead bring you a discussion of books.

I'm currently reading Andrea Dworkin's Life and Death, which is a collection of her most famous articles, essays, and speeches. She's inflammatory and incredibly controversial, even in the most diehard feminist circles, but I still think it's necessary to read her work. She was, after all, the most well-known (if not the most important) feminist critic of pornography and other forms of sex work. I'm still on the fence as to whether or not I agree with her.

On one hand, I consider myself to be a relatively sex-positive feminist. Ideologically, I don't have any problems with heterosexuality or most forms of sex work; if that's what people like to do, then they should have at it to their wee hearts' content. However, I don't necessarily think that purely theoretical acceptance should translate into an uncritical attitude towards heterosexual relationships and sex work as they currently exist in American society, especially since our starting conditions are far from ideal. Maybe if heterosexuality weren't largely compulsory (as evidenced by everything from the highly-gendered socialization of children to rampant homophobia and the fact that anti-gay attitudes and violence are still socially acceptable behaviors), I wouldn't question heterosexual norms. Perhaps if women who find themselves engaging in sex work weren't disproportionately poor and lacking in social resources, I wouldn't wonder if they'd choose those occupations if they were in more stable socioeconomic positions. And maybe if the pornography industry wasn't controlled (in terms of financing, producng, directing, and writing) by men, I wouldn't be concerned about whether its atmosphere is one of choice or coercion. I'm not sure if the gap between theory and reality will ever be resolved to my satisfaction.

Dworkin provides valuable insight into the minds and lives of sexworkers, detailing a number of horrors inflicted on prostitutes, strippers, and porn participants. She also provides a number of testimonies in their own words. All of these serve the end of showing that pornography, prostitution, and other forms of sex work are inherently harmful to all women, not just those who have been brutalized in the production of sex work. One of the kew points of Dworkin's argument is her insistence that many men who are exposed to pornography will develop negative, abusive attitudes towards women that could lead to further violence against women.

The major downside to Dworkin is that, apart from firsthand accounts, she doesn't provide any concrete evidence supporting his thoeries. There's never any statistical evidence that backs up her claims that exposure to pornography is responsible for escalating rates of violence against women, nor does she quantify the experiences of the women whose stories she incorporates into her writings. I don't think this renders her ideas invalid; I'd just like to have more information before I become a card-carrying member of the anti-porn brigade. I'll settle for "Ambivalent with Serious Concerns" right now.

And those of you with additional information on this subject (*cough* Lauren Riot and MacKenzie*cough*), you're welcome to chime in.