the important virtue of bloody-mindedness
For the last year or so my street cred as an English academic, bookworm, pseudo-intellectual and suchlike has been seriously under threat within the confines of our book club by a serious failure on my part, viz. a continued inability to read The Time-Traveller's Wife. All other book club members have raved about this work. Various reviewers have swooned, squee'd and led the cheering throngs in spirited pom-pom routines from the sidelines. I, on the other hand, have somewhat grumpily tended towards a repeat pattern of behaviour which entails reading the first two pages, growling, losing interest and retreating to, even odds, either pulp fantasy or semiotics.
I have come to the conclusion that, in fact, this is simply sheer bloody-mindedness on my part. I distrust and suspect the whole process of widespread cultural hurrah! to the extent that, in many cases, I simply resist consuming that particular cultural artefact beyond the point of reason. (Instances submitted in support of this: Titanic, which, vague interest in Victorian costuming notwithstanding, I have still not seen.) In other cases I'll actually deign to read or see the text, but my subconscious will deliberately, and with malice aforethought, refuse to allow me to enjoy the damned thing. (Along these lines, and with apologies to jo, Kung Fu Hustle and Shaun of the Dead). Even worse, I don't even feel guilty about it. I'm not sure if it's repeated exposure to cats or students which has conditioned me to consider rampant cussedness an actual virtue.
Which brings us to last week's dose of 'flu, during the course of which my mental strength was sapped sufficiently that I curled up on the sofa one afternoon and actually read The Time Traveller's Wife. It's a very good book. It's a beautifully written, amazingly perceptive, sensitive and very moving exploration of love and death. It constitutes a wonderful example of a science fiction novel which is not, in fact, a science fiction novel because the interest in human relationships entirely overshadows the technological gizmo which allows that exploration. (Another case in point: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.) However! While I enjoyed and admired the book, it didn't actually blow me away. I have no desire to rush around babbling about how amazing it was. It was not a life-changing experience, or in fact even very high in my personal mental hierarchy of Great Books I Have Read. Murakami shakes my world a lot more; Terry Pratchett inspires me to exactly the same extent with admiration for his perception of humanity. Yay Audrey whatshername, but drooling fangirl I am not. I suspect my dutifully cussed subconscious is putting the brakes on because it disdains to leap on any bandwagons.
Which is an interesting theory, except that it utterly fails in any way to explain my ongoing dedication to Lord of the Rings.
I have come to the conclusion that, in fact, this is simply sheer bloody-mindedness on my part. I distrust and suspect the whole process of widespread cultural hurrah! to the extent that, in many cases, I simply resist consuming that particular cultural artefact beyond the point of reason. (Instances submitted in support of this: Titanic, which, vague interest in Victorian costuming notwithstanding, I have still not seen.) In other cases I'll actually deign to read or see the text, but my subconscious will deliberately, and with malice aforethought, refuse to allow me to enjoy the damned thing. (Along these lines, and with apologies to jo, Kung Fu Hustle and Shaun of the Dead). Even worse, I don't even feel guilty about it. I'm not sure if it's repeated exposure to cats or students which has conditioned me to consider rampant cussedness an actual virtue.
Which brings us to last week's dose of 'flu, during the course of which my mental strength was sapped sufficiently that I curled up on the sofa one afternoon and actually read The Time Traveller's Wife. It's a very good book. It's a beautifully written, amazingly perceptive, sensitive and very moving exploration of love and death. It constitutes a wonderful example of a science fiction novel which is not, in fact, a science fiction novel because the interest in human relationships entirely overshadows the technological gizmo which allows that exploration. (Another case in point: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.) However! While I enjoyed and admired the book, it didn't actually blow me away. I have no desire to rush around babbling about how amazing it was. It was not a life-changing experience, or in fact even very high in my personal mental hierarchy of Great Books I Have Read. Murakami shakes my world a lot more; Terry Pratchett inspires me to exactly the same extent with admiration for his perception of humanity. Yay Audrey whatshername, but drooling fangirl I am not. I suspect my dutifully cussed subconscious is putting the brakes on because it disdains to leap on any bandwagons.
Which is an interesting theory, except that it utterly fails in any way to explain my ongoing dedication to Lord of the Rings.