#803

is Diary of a Nobody by George and Weedon Grossmith.

What an aptly titled book. It was surprising, because most other times when I have read things addressing a nobody, it didn't quite turn out to be so. But the Pooters were indeed a bunch of unremarkable folk, and it honestly did feel like I was reading some fool's diary.

I wonder if this book was considered to actually be funny to its contemporaries. I can see its playfulness, but it felt banal to me. I prefer the humor in Don Quixote to this, though they share similarities in folksiness and simple people. I was more embarrassed with the Pooters rather than sympathizing, than I was for Quixote and Sancho Panza.

I don't even really know what else to write. It definitely felt ahead of its time to be a whole volume without a plot, but it wasn't all that engaging. There does, obviously, need to be something driving the story. I suppose Lupin was supposed to be that in Diary, but he was a poor excuse for one.

And no, that is not a tub full of blood that the cover is depicting. That would have been much too exciting for this book.

Emma is no Anna

Bovary vs Karenina, that is.

I guess all that I can really say is that I am a product of the modern woman. My eyes could not hold still for a minute, for all the rolling that Emma forced on them. Her romantic fantasies were so syrupy and sugary - and if that weren't enough, she wasn't even capable of realizing that the promise of everlasting passion she was striving for wasn't even possible, or practical. I honestly believe that these mentioned problems would have been mere trifles if it were not for the uselessness of her character. So she was cultured and pretty, so what? All she ever did was hate Charles (so leave him then! She obviously wasn't afraid of scandal) while using his money and taking advantage of his weak will. Instead of dreaming all day, why not do something about it? Turning away sexual favors for money at the last minute doesn't make up any credibility the adulteress neglected to build through the entire novel. If anything, it worsens it, and I wish she had acted a whore to save her husband. Emma Bovary has no right to carrying dignity. Seriously, what a bitch.

I think a little feminist is coming out of me as I write this and I don't know how to take that. I just found this cartoon and it is pissing me off even more. What the heck are they talking about? WHAT ARE THEY GETTING? DO WOMEN THINK THEY ARE LIKE THIS? If they are, I hate all these women.

That's not to say that I didn't dislike Charles, because I did. What a weak, naive little man. It's unbelievable to create a character so lost in love - even the politest of men would have suspected the lack of Emma's devotion (I find it hard to believe that she would have even tried to hide it in the slightest).

And poor Berthe! With no real love from either of her parents, or even the maid, who looked after her. What selfish parents to neglect their daughter this way. What the heck. I am seriously getting angry just thinking of this crap parenting.

Who am I even supposed to like at all in this book? Is the point to say that all humans are awful? Sadly though, I don't even think Flaubert was making that point...he rather spent five years writing a soap opera without any real meaning. So, I CAN'T EVEN RESPECT FLAUBERT.
I guess the only person I find I can even accept or respect at all is Rodolphe. At least he was honest and self-indulgent in a normal way.

I will admit though that I felt a little bit of sympathy when she died...but I don't know for whom. Maybe it just creeped me out that she had a black tongue and black liquid was pouring out of her mouth or something. Gross. Honestly I was pretty much cheering when she finally died, but afterwards there was a little bit of soft feelings in there for a brief moment. That was replaced rather quickly however, once the story started carrying on again to Charles' grief. I suppose it's not practical to be angry at a whore wife once she's dead, even if you've uncovered her secrets, but I really just wanted him to get angry and stop being screwed over by this woman constantly (even beyond the grave). Professor Higgins of My Fair Lady would NOT have approved of this man.

Oh my god I don't even understand. I keep finding all these girly blogs that say "Madame Bovary is in my top fives <3". Seriously what? I hate you.
GAHHHHH. Ok. So no more reading about women for a while.

So it goes

Vonnegut has this sentimental, touching way of writing that always has me simultaneously missing childhood, and regretting the way I treat my parents (the sentiment of adults as children, to be simplified). It always makes me think what a nice person he must have been to have as a father. He seems very kind and sincere, and I wish that I could convey such emotions with as much eloquence as he can.

Slaughterhouse Five is brilliant in it's humanism. There were so many tender moments of human compassion within war. That they were conveyed through minimalistic sentences resulted in a profundity that I've never encountered; "The human beings also passed canteens, which guards would fill with water. When food came in, the human beings were quiet and trusting and beautiful. They shared."

and

"...He delivered himself to a barbed-wire fence which snagged him in a dozen places. Billy tried to back away from it, but the barbs wouldn't let go. So Billy did a silly little dance with the fence, taking a step this way, then that way, then returning to the beginning again.
A Russian, himself out in the night to take a leak, saw Billy dancing-from the other side of the fence. He came over to the curious scarecrow, tried to talk with it gently, asked it what country it was from. The scarecrow paid no attention, went on dancing. So the Russian undid the snags one by one, and the scarecrow danced off into the night again without a word of thanks.
 The Russian waved to him, and called after him in Russian, 'Good-bye'."

Anyway, the chronology of the time traveling events is superb. Vonnegut really understood the balance of weighty events with lighthearted ones, and expertly layered themes. The Tralfamadorians' concept of life is beautifully echoed in Billy's death in the middle of the book, and the last page is resonant of the war film that he watches backwards and forwards. After reading this, I don't know why Vonnegut considered God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater to be his best work...this one is leaps and bounds above that.
I'm glad that Rosewater made an appearance in Slaughterhouse, though. Nothing makes one smile like a cameo.

There are two girls fighting over a guy in my courtyard right now

And as I write this, I can hear such clever lines such as "you fat fucking cunt" and "you know what's funny, he had to use Viagra with you EVERY SINGLE TIME." Ope, now they're apparently pulling each other's hair, as I can hear the moderating male telling them to let go of each other. Class act, ladies.

Anyway, in regards to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson, not my cup of ether...and truth be told, I'm not even sure what this book is about besides being hopped up on drugs. How did they make a movie out of this? There is no plot. Not to say that I have a problem with that, as I definitely have an affinity in my short story writing to create scenes without action...but there was nothing to be learned in these 204 pages. 
I was constantly being built up (briefly, mind you), and then let down over and over again until I became utterly confused about what the whole point of any of this was, while also neglecting to care at all about anybody. Especially the attorney. Hate him.

The edition lent to me included illustrations by Ralph Steadman (which apparently originally appeared alongside the story in Rolling Stone's 1971 issues 95 and 96, so I assume most all copies would include them). I found them REALLY REALLY offputting. I mean, I understand why crude and psychotic drawings would be relative to a narrative like this, but in this case I didn't find it to add anything beneficial to the text at all. In fact, they kind of annoyed me to see those pictures after having made my own mental image of the scenes and then having them contrasted to dirty images of frog people.

In news regarding my reading progress, I was not aware that Colleen (the giver of books) is moving NEXT MONTH. Which means I have nine books to read in like, six weeks. Yeah right. Not happening. Which is sad, but, NOT AS SAD AS THE FACT THAT I WILL HAVE ZERO FRIENDS LEFT. Depress.
Speaking of Colleen though, I went out with her tonight to go see Moonrise Kingdom which was freaking adorable. Classy little children and precious adults. Hearts in my heart <3 <3 <3. And that house, and that beach. geeze. Jealous! Want it. I wish my life were a Wes Anderson film, like every other hipster on this planet. Who are you, Juman? I want to be you.

Lazy Sunday

I have spent the last handful of hours just lolling about on my couch after getting up from bed in a state of laziness and persistent depression. Waste of youth (Trout, I would not be asking for your last request, if it involves being a 20-something).

In that time I finished #340. Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut instead of going to the grocery store like I should be doing. Regardless of the fact that it might typecast me into the generic punk rock high schooler, I loved this book the entire way. I loved the unabashed way the narrator spoke, disregarding PC vocabulary and ideology. Even through possibly rude and insensitive topics, there was a consistent voice of love and value for every character that was somehow incredibly parental and mature. I want to characterize this book as cute, but not in the typical sense...it was more that it touched childish feelings within me as well as brought out the vulnerability in grown characters (and animals alike. I heart Sparky).

As a reunion of characters in his previous books, I have always loved the idea of this kind of thing. A picture book that I worked on with a close friend last summer even follows this strain. It's also pretty meta, in regards to the storyline which is wonderful. I'm not even sure that there was a story as much as a contemplation of humanity and history and society's patterns with no bullshit. Which is groundbreaking...or something. Innovative, no question.
And let's not forget the pictures (obviously). So fun, so carefree, so stream of thought. Love it. That this book was written in Vonnegut's later career is also captivating. The idea of an aging, experienced writer writing such a playful book is something enchanting and shows a simple literary wisdom that I wish I could have. Maybe someday.

I'm feeling very homesick for Michigan after visiting last weekend, and the intimacy that Vonnegut seems to feel for Indiana touches me a bit. I need to get out of Chicago. I have only found heartache here. Someone help me.
At least I have a good gathering of books (thank you Colleen) to keep my mind busy for a while until that day hopefully comes (sooner rather than later please).