Bookish Anxiety.
There are only a few books that I've read in my life that I truly, rabidly love. I've enjoyed hundreds, but there are only a few that have left me breathless - paragons of every virtue that I hold dear in literature.
I love books that are beautifully versed - descriptions that are poetic and also true, scenes and portraits that become a distinct part of my memory, inseparable from the real memories of my own life.
I am reluctant to admit this, but I need plot. I know it seems awfully pedestrian in this post-modern world, but I'm an old-fashioned girl and I like a story with, well, a story.
I love little twists and silly laughs. I love depth, but not at the price of humor and humanity.
I love, for example, Our Man in Havana. Greene was having a hell of a day when he wrote that little gem. How he managed to make satire funny, I'll never know. Few pull it off.
I love The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera, mostly for the character development and the lyricism.
I loved Fingersmith, by Sarah Waters, which brings me to the anxiety part of my bookishness. I read Fingersmith just over a year ago, and I was instantly enamored with Waters' language and mystery and clever plot tangles. I couldn't put the book down until I was done. When I did have to put it down, I counted the minutes until I could pick it up again. Every time I thought that I had figured out the plot, she threw another curve ball. The settings were tangible. The characters were fascinating. I was head over heels for this book.
Waters has several other books, and I've been toying with the idea of reading one of them since I finished this exemplar of hers. But I am terrified that the next one won't be as good. I could never enjoy any of Greene's novels as much as I relished Our Man in Havana because what I wanted was more Our Man in Havana. I wanted to extend that experience, but I couldn't. And I couldn't make it new again by re-reading it.
I hate that.
I love books that are beautifully versed - descriptions that are poetic and also true, scenes and portraits that become a distinct part of my memory, inseparable from the real memories of my own life.
I am reluctant to admit this, but I need plot. I know it seems awfully pedestrian in this post-modern world, but I'm an old-fashioned girl and I like a story with, well, a story.
I love little twists and silly laughs. I love depth, but not at the price of humor and humanity.
I love, for example, Our Man in Havana. Greene was having a hell of a day when he wrote that little gem. How he managed to make satire funny, I'll never know. Few pull it off.
I love The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera, mostly for the character development and the lyricism.
I loved Fingersmith, by Sarah Waters, which brings me to the anxiety part of my bookishness. I read Fingersmith just over a year ago, and I was instantly enamored with Waters' language and mystery and clever plot tangles. I couldn't put the book down until I was done. When I did have to put it down, I counted the minutes until I could pick it up again. Every time I thought that I had figured out the plot, she threw another curve ball. The settings were tangible. The characters were fascinating. I was head over heels for this book.
Waters has several other books, and I've been toying with the idea of reading one of them since I finished this exemplar of hers. But I am terrified that the next one won't be as good. I could never enjoy any of Greene's novels as much as I relished Our Man in Havana because what I wanted was more Our Man in Havana. I wanted to extend that experience, but I couldn't. And I couldn't make it new again by re-reading it.
I hate that.
posted by Autumn at 8:39 PM
2 Comments:
i suggest millroy the magician by paul theroux it is unforgettable and beautiful...
how are you?
xox
I'll definitely check it out, since you also introduced my to Fingersmith. I just ordered Affinity by Waters, and I'm holding my breath with fear and hope. We'll see. And Molly just sent Everything is Illuminated, which has gotten great reviews.
I'm great-busy-crazy-swamped-neurotic-nuts-gleeful-scared-etc. School starts next week - one American lit class (yay! Emerson) and two World Lit classes (yay! world!) - and I have sooooo much still to do and soooooo little time in which to do it. Yikes. I'm afraid my blog will suffer.
I read yours. You sound a little more...er...not-entirely-unhappy. I know that you can make your own beauty and art and magic anywhere, so I'll not worry too much.
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