Book Review: Moab is my Washpot,

the autobiography of Stephen Fry, copyright 1997, available from Arrow Books.

Just go read it.

(Miss Melville: you need to read this because there's a great section about the nature of truth and The British Personality that I think may prove vaguely relevant to your cultural studies. If nothing else it's a great jape to lump it in your Biblio.)

Stephen Fry is brilliant with words, we all know that. He's not just clever or witty with them, as are many charming punsters. He genuinely loves them, knows them intimately, and understands their origins and many changing usages through time. As such, he chooses his words very carefully and very deliberately (yet maintaining a tone of chatty spontenaity -- there is nothing stilted or contrived about his style). Each word is there because it is the only one that will do. It is the correct word for that space, and no other word could fill its function. For the reader, it's like looking at a painting by a Dutch Master, every brush stroke doing exactly what it is meant to do. It's a joy, a genuine joy to read, never mind the content.

And the content is just as good. He goes back and forth between personal anecdotes and grand cosmic thoughts, in a sort of conversational way. It's an easy read, and yet still thought-provoking. His section on music and the way it effects him, the way he affects music, and the social consequences therein, is breathtaking.

I don't understand the title. I know it's from Psalm 108, but I don't understand its meaning or relevance. If anyone else does, please share with the rest of the class.

Overall rating: 4 bungling buggerers


(Oh, and this bit is funny. Apparently once instead of committing suicide, Stephen Fry once went to Belgium instead, as a sort of punishment. Go watch "In Bruge" and tell me if that's not the funniest thing you've ever heard in your life.)

Why Philip Pullman should be SHOT,

or at the very least have all his fingers lopped off with bolt cutters so he can never write another godawful fucking horrible awful book again.

I don't have enough bad things to say about His Dark Materials, and very few good things to say about it.

(Warning: Spoilers Ahead)

After everyone told me how great they are, and given my general taste in reading, I fully expected to enjoy them. Expected it so much that I even splashed out and bought nice editions of all three books at one go, with sturdy acid-free paper and everything so they would last and be wonderful treasures on my book shelf that one day my kids could read. Really, I did.

My kids will never read these books. Not until they're at least 30.

Are you getting the sense that I didn't like them?

Minor, run-of-the-mill criticisms include trivialities such as:

• the main character wasn't terribly likeable or sympathetic
• in fact, most of the human characters were complete cunts (except for Lee Scoresby, who gets killed for the very reason that he's the only decent dude therein, and in Pullman's world we kill off all the nice characters just make sure you cry that little bit extra)
• The plot wasn't tied together very well at the end. You read and read and read looking to see how it all connects, and there's this never-ending section of crap to slog through that isn't really relevant, and then one character shows up on the last page and explains everything in 4 sentences. Not the best story-telling in the world.
• Several key things never get explained (like how the knife came into being), and are just left dangling
• they weren't nearly as anti-religion as I had been led to believe
  

But my biggest, single, number one criticism is this:

THEY'RE FUCKING TERRIFYING. THEY'RE HEART-WRENCHINGLY, SICKENINGLY, NAUSEATINGLY, GUT-TWISTINGLY TERRIFYING.

When it comes to frightening children, Pullman makes Walt Disney look like Mother fucking Theresa.

Now I don't have a problem with a bit of scary stuff and suspense. You need conflict to create drama, and you need drama to make it worth reading, otherwise it's all a bunch of Dick and Jane crap. But there's a line.

Harry Potter is not the be-all and end-all of kids' adventure fiction, far from it, but for the purposes of comparing His Dark Materials with magical adventure fantasy fiction aimed at a similar age group it will suit well enough.

In Harry Potter there is a thing called a Dementor. It's a scary being that sucks people's souls out through their mouths. That's creepy. It's a fate worse than death. In His Dark Materials there's a thing called a Specter. It attacks adults and eats their consciousness effectively making them zombies. Same concept, really. The difference is that JK Rowling doesn't graphically describe scenes where a father is attacked by a dementor, but while fleeing has carried his 3-year-old son into a river, who is then dropped into said river as father becomes a zombie, and flops about, drowning, screaming, crying, begging his father to pick him up. Dad ingores the kid. Mentally, he's gone. Baby is drowning in river at his feet.

It's sick.

It's incredibly sick.

Pullman's brand of terror happens to be the one that pushes my buttons the most. It's not blood and guts and brains being spattered about. Most kids don't find that stuff scary, and neither do I. What terrifies me is separation. I had wicked separation anxiety as a kid, and still struggle with it from time to time. This was triggered by a traumatic event that happened when I was 2 or 3, where I thought my mom was being taken from me forever. What Pullman does is to think of every kind of painful separation -- physical, emotional, spiritual, whatever -- and then throw it at you, over and over again in waves, in every conceivable permutation: children being separated from parents, friends from friends, people from daemons (souls), you name it, he takes it away.

I'm still angry at Pullman because I can't get these images out of my head. I wanted some light reading for the holidays. I chose some "children's" literature that had been recommended to me by several people whose judgement I generally trust. Damn near ruined my Christmas. I spent every day in tears, shaking with terror.

The only reason I read all three was that by the end of the first book, if I had stopped, it would have been like turning off a horror movie at the scariest part, which I know is the worst thing you can. You have to watch to the end so you can see everything comes out OK eventually. That was the one and only reason I kept reading.

I still have every book I've ever owned. When I read a book, I keep it (unless it's a library book, obv). These are the first ever books I've deliberately gotten rid of. When I got back from Pirate's I woke up, grabbed the books, and took them straight up to Oxfam. I don't even want them on my shelves. I don't want to look at them. Fucking awful books.

10 authors

who should be bludgeoned about the head and shoulders until dead. even if they already are.

(a mememememe from First Nations)

1. John Gower (late 14th C), for being a self-righteous, moralizing cunt AND for being it in the most pedantic rhyming verse ever penned. His rhymes and meter are perfect. Never a dropped syllable, ever. Reading the Confession Amantis is like being hypnotized by the world's most arrogant metronome.

2. JK Rowling, for turning Harry Potter into the fucking messiah and making the whole thing another fucking Christian allegory. And for killing Fred Weasley.

3. Whoever wrote "Cheaper By The Dozen." I don't know who you are. We've never met. And I don't even remember the book. What I do remember is my mom yelling at me 4 times a week for 10 years to read the fucking thing. I managed to get through 3 chapters before I couldn't stand another word. The book itself probably wasn't that loathesome, but I can feel nothing but hatred for the author who penned the book my mom used as a torture device for the better part of a decade.

4. Aldous Huxley. Sort of. First time I read Brave New World I hated it. Second time I decided it might not completely suck. Third time I loved it. I guess Huxley is one of those writers who grows on you. Like mildew.

5. Ann Rice. The literary equivaltent of a 12-year-old wearing lipstick and high heels. She tries so hard to sound grown-up and sophisticated, but it's clearly an act.

6. Hemmingway. There's minamalist, and then there's half-finished. Hemmingway is the literary equivalent of the Eiffel Tower. Everyone says how great it is in public because that's what you're supposed to say and it's sacriligious to suggest otherwise, but ask someone in private and they'll admit it looks like the builders ran out of money min-construction. Hemmingway writes girders.

7. All Hollywood screen writers and sitcom writers.

8. Virginia Wolfe. Get over yourself.

9. All postmodernists. All of them.

and finally...

10. All copywriters and editors who can't punctuate correctly. Mere death is insufficient.

C.S. Lewis phoned; he wants his plot back.

(WARNING: MAJOR HARRY POTTERS SPOILER AHEAD)














FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!!! Did she have to turn it into a another fucking Christian allegory???

(And Herebe don't bother telling me that if it's a Chrisian allegory she didn't steal CS Lewis's plot, she got it from the Bible because that's where Lewis got it. I know that.)

I knew it was getting a bit Messianic with that whole prophecy thing in book 5, and of course it wouldn't be an interesting prophecy if there was no doubt as to whom the prophecy referred, so Rowling made sure to throw a bit of confusion in for good measure.

(Oh, and speaking of plot rip-offs, when he puts the locket horcrux around his neck and it starts describing how heavy the burden is and it begins to turn him evil i about spit. i was just waiting for him to whisper the word "prescious" in the night, at which point i would have burnt the book. thank god that didn't happen.)

Then Harry walks into the Room of Reqirement and greets all his apostles, erm, friends, who cheer "yay! he's come to fight for us and set us free!" and he has to tell them that no, actually he didn't come to fight for them. he's going to set them free another way.

then he has to march off willingly to his death in the forest.

but lo! he doesn't die! he takes a killing curse from Voldemort right between the eyes, has an afterlife conversation with Dumbledore, and rises from the dead! what a fucking surprise!

(at least it didn't take three days.)

then he explains to Voldemort, in front of everyone, how he cannot kill anyone because he, Harry, was willing to die to save them, and that is a magid deeper and older than anything Voldemort understands. He died to save everyone, out of love, and now they cannot suffer death! He has conquered it for them! Gaaaaaagh!

As if this wasn't nauseating enough, Harry commits the cardinal plot sin of explaining to his victim exaclty how he, Voldemort, is going to die and why. It was like a bad spy movie. I half expected Big V to get away just because Harry couldn't shut his yap.

I didn't object to the "19 years later" ending on principle, but given that it contained not One Single Surprise, there was no point. A "X years later" ending is supposed to make you go "Aaaaaah! No way!!!!", not confirm everything you've suspected since book 2 for the love of all that's holy. What a waste of paper.



Oh, and to everyone who tried to convince me that Snape really was evil and working for the Dark Lord, I have but this to say: nyah nyah nyah nyah booboo, stick your head in doodoo! I was right, I was right! You people really don't understand the concept of a double-agent, do you?


The one good thing that comes of all this is finally the Religious Wrong will have to shut up about Harry Potter and the occult and how the books corrupt Christian values, since it's as much an allegory of Christ as The LW&W ever was. And anything that proves the Jesus Nutters wrong and puts a sock in their collective, hypocrital pie-hole is OK by me.


And hands up everyone who agrees with me that Harry should have boned Luna instead of Ginny.


ps. new post over at Question Everything (finally).

Unconventional Conventionists and Rodent Requiem

I'm back! Yay for you.

Last monday week the Pirate and I went to see the Rocky Horror Show. The tix were by birthday gift to him since we'd been trying to see it for over six months but stuff kept getting in the way.

So there we were, walking around downtown Bath in our knickers.

He went as Rocky for a change, instead of his usual Frank getup. We spraypainted his underwear and sneakers metallic gold, sprayed his hair gold, and put gold sparkles all over his muscly chest. It was pure class, people.

I did a Janet, and wore a lacy white virginal bra, white knickers, a very short white slip, stockings and heels. and that were it. We had such a good time despite the fact that most of the boring, middle class people in Bath showed up in boring, middle class clothes and refused to do the Time Warp with us. What a bunch of squares.


The following morning I was off to America, where I attended the 42nd Congress on Medieval Studies at Kalamazoo and gave a paper on my recent work. I got some good criticism and feedback and made some good connections. I also bought over $500 worth of books, including an antique set of the complete works of Chaucer in 7 volumes from 1899 in beautiful condition. I had to have them.

The highlight of the convention was Miss Melville, long-time fiend who recently finished her BA in English. She had never been to an academic conference and when she came along to hear my paper she was enthralled by the whole setup. So the following day she came with me and gate-crashed.

Let me repeat that in case you missed the implications of that statement. She gate-crashed an academic conference on Medieval studies because it was fun. There's nerds and then there's nerds.

I had a lovely week at home with my parents and wonderbeagle. Daisy Doodle is still plugging along (albeit very slowly), but since I won't be back home again for a year I know I'll not see her again. It's very sad.

The other extremely sad news is that Bluto died while I was away. This does not come as a surprise. He had been losing weight and getting thin for some time, and I suspected there was a problem with his mouth. I observed that he was only storing food in his left cheek pouch, and never his right. When I saw uneaten sunflower seeds in his cage I knew it was serious, because only terrible pain could possibly keep him from his sunflower seeds, such was his love of the crunchy little delectibles. Unfortunately when these things happen there's nought to be done. I made an effort to give him more soft, fatty foods, but it wasn't enough. Poor little blighter. He was a most excellent and admirable rodent.

The Order of Operations

I hesitate to write this, because it's going to sound like one of those gahdawful self-help books, an also becuae I'm actually thinking of writing aforementioned self-help book, purely for the money of course (and why give it a way free if I can sell it?). But I decided to let you Be My Guinea Pigs. (Now why don't they ever put that on a candy heart, i ask you.)

Here's the basic premise:

There are two ways to structure your life and make decisions.
1. Figure out what's feasible and choose from the available options, or
2. Figure out what you want and find a way to make it feasible.

Number 1 is perfectly practical and many people do it and it will bring a modicom of success with relative safety and ease. But it's inherently limiting. That method of reasoning will always, in the end, be a cage. It might be a very big cage, and you (as many people are) might be very happy living in your corner of it. But there's a lot more out there beyond the bars.

The second thought process is more risky, but the rewards are far greater. It's harder. It involves exploring and discovering your actual desires, instead of selecting from a few options before you. It's like the difference between going to a restaurant and deciding what to eat based on the menu selections, and taking a few minutes to stop and thinking 'what kind of food do i want to eat,' and then figuring out where to get it or how to cook it.

I have always lived my life by the latter method, but i've only recently become aware that this is what i was doing, and it's different from what i observe a lot of my friends doing. What do you think of all this? Would you find this sort of advice interesting/useful? Do you think other people would? Yes, it would make me a whore to the system. But I'm doing it because I've identified needs (money) and I'm trying to figure out ways of achieving them. Thoughts?

The Loot

This is the post where I tell you about all the neato stuff I got for my birfday. Mum and dad sent much needed $$$. Sr. Aunt PITA also sent $ and a book titled "Mysteries of the Middle Ages." (It looks interesting, but I question the scholarship and the agenda of the author. Will read with grain of salt near at hand.) The bro and sis-in-law sent me one of these:


Yay! now i can make my own smoothies and creamed soups and all kinds of yumminess. (Frozen cocktails has nothing to do with it, I swear.)



But the biggest surprises of all came from the Pirate and his parents.

(are you excited yet? I bet you're getting excited. You guys eat this shit up like a flock of seagulls on a corpse in a landfill.*)

Well! A package arrived in the mail, and it was Royal Mail not international so I knew it wasn't from my fam. I didn't recognize the handwriting, so I knew it wasn't any of the handful of friends I had scattered around the country. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. (I shit you not. My life really has become a Julie Andrews movie. {Not "Victor Victoria"}) I tore it open. It was a gigantic, gorgeous book titled, "Masterpieces of Illumination: the most significant manuscripts from 600 to 1400." Somebody knows me pretty damn well. I was really touched.

It was Friday evening, the day of my actual anniversary of entering the world (after a 17-hour labor, which I'm told was attributed to my shaving my legs and deciding what to wear**). The Man Himself came over, fairly late as he'd been training that evening for a national sports competition. He took me in his arms and said...

(are you salivating yet?)

"For your birthday present....

later this weekend...

I'm taking you over to Bath...

(and yes, he really was pausing after every clause, in a warped, Shatner-esque attempt to build suspense. It worked.)

where all the nice shops are...

to go shopping for...

(by this point I was almost hyperventilating)

a...

new...

evening gown!"

Ok, so it wasn't small, round, and shiny. But still, how fucking cool is that???? I've never gotten to pick out a proper gown before. I own 2, but one is a leftover from when I was a bridesmaid and I didn't get to select it, and the other I bought for 2 reasons and 2 reasons only: 1, it fit; and 2, it was cheap. I bought it to be disposable, and I've been wearing it for 3 years. So The Pirate is taking me out to doll me up in proper, high-class evening attire, along with all the necessary tailoring and underpinnings. Whoo-hoo!

We spent all day Sunday in Bath, but there was nothing. Only a few evening gowns left in the shops, and nothing to write home about. (Apparently it's not the season for purchasing formal evening wear.) After a disappointing afternoon in which I only managed to even try on 2 dresses, the Pirate is already hatching a plan to take me to London, where the shopping is legendary. Sa-weet. This is going to be phun with a capital "ph." I'll post pics when we find something we like. :0)

(and I can't help but wonder if the reason he wants to get me new gown is because he has some specific event in mind where I will need such an ensemble. I wouldn't say it's likely, but it's just possible. Stay tuned...)


*Note to self: insulting readership probably not best way to win friends and influence people.

**Ironic, as I've not shaved my legs since and I really don't give a toss about what I've got on.

I'm it, or so it would seem

Just got tagged by Timorous Beastie. The idea is to reach for the nearest book, go to page 123, look for the 5th sentence on the page, and then post the next three sentences. Here you go:

Auter maner leche lumbarde. Take fayre Hony, and clarifi yt on the fyre tylle it wexe hard; then take hard yolkys of Eyroun, & kryme a gode quantyte ther-to tyl it be styf y-now; an thenne take it vppe, & ley it on a borde; then take fayre gratyd Brede, and pouder pepir, & molde it to-gederys with thine hondys, tyl it be so styf that it wole ben lechyd; than leche it; then take wyne & pouder Gyngere, Canelle, & a lytil claryfyid hony, & late renne thorw a straynour, & caste this Syrip there-on, when thou shalt serue it out insteade of Cleyre.

(From the Harley ms. 279, p. 35 vj.)

Sorry. I'm reading a book of medieval cooking. Bet you weren't expecting that, were you???! The above is a recipe for Lombard Slices (whatever those are). Here is the recipe (for the foodies among you) re-written by professional chef and historian and adapted for the modern kitchen:

"12 hard-boiled egg yolks
8 Tbs clear honey
175 g/6 oz fine white breadcrumbs or as needed
pinch of ground black pepper

syrup:
225 ml/8 fl oz/1 cup red wine
generous pinch of ground cinnamon and ginger
5 tablespoons clear honey

There are at least three recipes for the sweetmeat called Leche Lumbard: one stiffened with dates, one with almonds, and this one with egg yolk. If you want to, you can use fewer egg yolks and more breadcrumbs, but the consistency will not be as smooth.

Sieve the egg yolks on to a sheet of paper. Bring the honey for the slices to the boil and simmer for 2 minutes. Take the pan off the heat. And the sieved yolks little by little tothe pan, beating or stirring rpaidlyto belend them in smoothly. Then blend in the breadcrumbs and pepper; use sufficient breadcrumbs to make the mixture stiff enough to mould. Shape it into a breick and chill until cold and firm. Cut it into small slices like halva.

Simmer the ingredients for the syrup until the wine is well reduced. Spoon alittle over each slice before serving.

Serve with small spoons as a sweet mouthful with coffee."

Taken from The Medieval Cookbook by Maggie Black, British Museum Press, c. 1992.

Damn you, Jane Austen

I have a confession to make. I got distracted from my work last night by a Jane Austen novel. I told myself “just one chapter, and then back to work.” Yeah, right. Four hours, two teabags, and jar of Nutella later I was weeping and breathless as I read the words in Captain Wentworth’s letter to Anne, “You pierce my soul.” Yes, I know that Austen’s novels are formulaic. They all have the same 8 characters, the same plot twists, and the same endings. But Christ, it’s a good formula. I fell asleep last night dreaming that Edward Ferrars, Mr. Darcy, and Fredrick Wentworth would all knock on my door at the same moment, simultaneously professing, in elegant, early 19th C. rhetoric, their undying devotion to my figure, sensibility, and character. And I awoke this morning to a demanding cat with a foot-fetish, a torrential down-pour, and the knowledge that my dissertation is due in, um, 20 days?, and I wasted all last night fantasizing about useless, rich, well-spoken gentlemen. Crap. Back to work.