Books # 18 & 19.
Book # 18: The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts by Maxine Hong Kingston.
Brittany lent me a bunch of books to read one day when I was complaining that I was out of book, and had exhausted Walgreen's fine array of literature. This one was among them, a nice mix of fiction, classics and books I'm sure she had to buy for some classes along the way. It is refreshing to have to use my mind to think about things other than work every once in a while.
This book plays fast and loose with my idea of a memoir. In my head memoirs are more interesting than biographies, but very much in the same vein. Kingston lays out her life in a very non-liner fashion, lengthly interrupted by "talk-stories" or myths her mother had told her. One whole section of the book (which is broken up into five parts) is devoted to Fa Mu Lan and how she became a great woman warrior. How interesting it is to see the story as it is meant to be, instead of the Disney-fied version that we all know. It is very very different, but like all Disney movies still retains some of the original message.
It is difficult to tell the facts of Kingston's life from the Chinese fictions that her parents have told her. The way that she tells her story makes it difficult to separate what was only in her head and what might have really happened. Perhaps that is from the strain of trying to intertwine two drastically different cultures at so young an age. I haven't ever had that problem, I have always been able to tell fact from fiction (even fiction that I am deeply involved with) and separate my whole being into nice little compartments. Perhaps that is the Americanized way of living, to separate your life into little, digestible, compartments. We have so many milestones and so many markers to cut up time into as many little pieces as we need to to make sure that everything makes sense. Perhaps without these markers and these little contained pieces, it would be like the memoir, everything liquid and flowing from one point to another.
Perhaps life shouldn't be compartmentalized as we do it. Perhaps that is no way to live. Kingston's memoir doesn't separate the fact from the fiction, the talk stories from the actual events. There are a couple of times where she says that she has tried to separate these things, separate what is Chinese in her from what is American in her, but she never seemed to succeed. I would say that maybe if Americans weren't so good at compartmentalizing and putting troublesome emotions away in little boxes, then we would be a happier group of people, however, Kingston never seemed to put any thing in the little boxes and her life doesn't seem any happier than any other.
One part I especially liked was when she decided that she would tell her mother everything she had ever done wrong in her life, to absolve herself of the guilt that was ever present. She started with killing a spider when she was five, and thought if she just told one or two things she had done a day, she would have told her mother all of her "sins" in a year. This didn't last very long, unfortunately, because her mother didn't want to listen to her whisper about seemingly insignificant guilts. Kingston rationalizes it as she was intruding on her mother's only quiet time during the day. I thought it was a neat idea though, and a need to be absolved that is infinitely relate-able.
All in all, an interesting read. I only wish I was in class again, I would be prompted to go deeper, and inspired by the people around me to think about things I would never have come up with on my own.
But, instead of think some more, I read another trashy romance novel.
Book # 19: Devil May Cry by Sherrilyn Kenyon.
In my last post I talked about why I enjoy Ms. Kenyon's books so much. Well, none of that has changed, and with the latest book, I don't really have anything to add. The thing about romance books, even well written, highly entertaining romance books, is that still, they are all about the same. I enjoyed whittling away a couple hours while I was waiting for Tino to pick me up, and a couple of hours yesterday, reading, smoking and drinking coffee. There is no better way to spend a lazy Wednesday afternoon than just relaxing on my front stooplet with caffeine, nicotine, and vicariously living through other people.
Brittany lent me a bunch of books to read one day when I was complaining that I was out of book, and had exhausted Walgreen's fine array of literature. This one was among them, a nice mix of fiction, classics and books I'm sure she had to buy for some classes along the way. It is refreshing to have to use my mind to think about things other than work every once in a while.
This book plays fast and loose with my idea of a memoir. In my head memoirs are more interesting than biographies, but very much in the same vein. Kingston lays out her life in a very non-liner fashion, lengthly interrupted by "talk-stories" or myths her mother had told her. One whole section of the book (which is broken up into five parts) is devoted to Fa Mu Lan and how she became a great woman warrior. How interesting it is to see the story as it is meant to be, instead of the Disney-fied version that we all know. It is very very different, but like all Disney movies still retains some of the original message.
It is difficult to tell the facts of Kingston's life from the Chinese fictions that her parents have told her. The way that she tells her story makes it difficult to separate what was only in her head and what might have really happened. Perhaps that is from the strain of trying to intertwine two drastically different cultures at so young an age. I haven't ever had that problem, I have always been able to tell fact from fiction (even fiction that I am deeply involved with) and separate my whole being into nice little compartments. Perhaps that is the Americanized way of living, to separate your life into little, digestible, compartments. We have so many milestones and so many markers to cut up time into as many little pieces as we need to to make sure that everything makes sense. Perhaps without these markers and these little contained pieces, it would be like the memoir, everything liquid and flowing from one point to another.
Perhaps life shouldn't be compartmentalized as we do it. Perhaps that is no way to live. Kingston's memoir doesn't separate the fact from the fiction, the talk stories from the actual events. There are a couple of times where she says that she has tried to separate these things, separate what is Chinese in her from what is American in her, but she never seemed to succeed. I would say that maybe if Americans weren't so good at compartmentalizing and putting troublesome emotions away in little boxes, then we would be a happier group of people, however, Kingston never seemed to put any thing in the little boxes and her life doesn't seem any happier than any other.
One part I especially liked was when she decided that she would tell her mother everything she had ever done wrong in her life, to absolve herself of the guilt that was ever present. She started with killing a spider when she was five, and thought if she just told one or two things she had done a day, she would have told her mother all of her "sins" in a year. This didn't last very long, unfortunately, because her mother didn't want to listen to her whisper about seemingly insignificant guilts. Kingston rationalizes it as she was intruding on her mother's only quiet time during the day. I thought it was a neat idea though, and a need to be absolved that is infinitely relate-able.
All in all, an interesting read. I only wish I was in class again, I would be prompted to go deeper, and inspired by the people around me to think about things I would never have come up with on my own.
But, instead of think some more, I read another trashy romance novel.
Book # 19: Devil May Cry by Sherrilyn Kenyon.
In my last post I talked about why I enjoy Ms. Kenyon's books so much. Well, none of that has changed, and with the latest book, I don't really have anything to add. The thing about romance books, even well written, highly entertaining romance books, is that still, they are all about the same. I enjoyed whittling away a couple hours while I was waiting for Tino to pick me up, and a couple of hours yesterday, reading, smoking and drinking coffee. There is no better way to spend a lazy Wednesday afternoon than just relaxing on my front stooplet with caffeine, nicotine, and vicariously living through other people.