Meanwhile, in "Special Topics"
Chapter 1 consists of a brief Sue Van Meer family portrait. Daddy Van Meer is Gary Stu himself, an immigrant with nothing who became a successful professor, and married the love of his life. Said love is as Sueish as Blue herself, and would likely be the star of the show, were she alive. Her death is painted in terms that I think are supposed to make me be sympathetic. The author tries very hard to give the whole thing a ~tragic air~ and, well, it comes out sounding pretty dumb.
Also, our protagonist, Blue, is named after a butterfly. This is perhaps the only actual character development in the entire chapter. It's strange how little the narrator is present in her own family portrait, and yet still able to make them seem like caricatures of the Wonderful Loving Family that Suffered a Tragic Loss (oh yes, the random capitalization is still very much in effect).
The references are only getting thicker the further I go. Now they're starting to come with citations, and you can bet your aunt Sally's pension I'm not going to bother looking them up. Mixed in with the sudden literary rigor is a poorly-veiled distaste for academia. Color me not at all surprised. I'm beginning to get a sense of this author, and someone who has spent time in academia and grown ~*~tired of it all~*~ fits annoyingly well.
Maybe I'm reading too much into this. I'm kind of inherently biased against the author at this point because of the writing style. That's no reason to assume I've unveiled their hidden prejudices. Let me give her a chance, and go on to chapter two.
Second paragraph of chapter 2 ends:
(I assumed, given the extreme competition, these institutions weren't mourning Dad's absence from their "tight-knit circle of incest" - what he called highbrow academia.)
…CHANCE OVER.
You know what? I was going to read to the end of this chapter before adding more commentary. Really. I don't mean to stop every two pages to gape in horror, but sometimes I can't help it. I'm sorry, an author in a novel just cited themselves with a "(see below)" in the text. When. Do. You. EVER. Need. To. Do. That. WHARGHBLARGLE.
Okay, deep breaths…deep breaths…
…fucking seriously. Did the narrator just describe her experiences hopping from school system to school system by comparing herself to Jane Goodall. I am not kidding, exaggerating, or reading into the text. She explicitly compares herself to Jane Goodall. I swear to god, if I don't get some redeeming character trait before I'm halfway through this terrible, terrible penance I am just burning it and pissing on the ashes. She collects knick-knacks! She knits sweaters for the elderly and infirm! She doesn't spit on every hobo she encounters on the street! I AM WILLING TO SETTLE HERE.
Let me again venture into the hideous, tortured realm of direct quotation:
Dad picked up women the way certain wool pants can't help but pick up lint. For years I had a nickname for them, though I feel a little guilty using it now: June Bugs (see "Figeater Beetle," Ordinary Insects, Vol. 24).
That brief, passing admission of guilt? That is the most likable and/or sympathetic thing this narrator has done thus far. I shit you not. Also, that completely unnecessary pretentious citation? She's averaging about 1.5 of those per paragraph. The things I do for…why am I doing this again?
Then she goes through the "women" in an itemized list, putting each one down with a carefully chosen citation, sometimes without any apparent reason. End this chapter. Please. I beg you.
Sometimes June Bugs weren't too terrible. Some of the sweeter, more docile ones like poor, droopy-eyed Tally Meyerson, I actually felt sorry for, because even though Dad made no attempt to hide the fact they were as temporary as Scotch tape, most were blind to his indifference (see "Basset Hound," Dictionary of Dogs, Vol. 1).
To hell with ending the chapter, someone end my tortured existence.
There. I've made it to the end of chapter two. I'm on page 34. Of 514. I may not make it to the end of this, but I'm going to try. It's not a matter of curiosity anymore, or even humor. No, not even for the warm glow of attention from my flist. This book has hurt me. It has caused me physical pain. I will finish it as a matter of pride, nay, of honor.
AUT VINCERE, AUT MORI
Also, our protagonist, Blue, is named after a butterfly. This is perhaps the only actual character development in the entire chapter. It's strange how little the narrator is present in her own family portrait, and yet still able to make them seem like caricatures of the Wonderful Loving Family that Suffered a Tragic Loss (oh yes, the random capitalization is still very much in effect).
The references are only getting thicker the further I go. Now they're starting to come with citations, and you can bet your aunt Sally's pension I'm not going to bother looking them up. Mixed in with the sudden literary rigor is a poorly-veiled distaste for academia. Color me not at all surprised. I'm beginning to get a sense of this author, and someone who has spent time in academia and grown ~*~tired of it all~*~ fits annoyingly well.
Maybe I'm reading too much into this. I'm kind of inherently biased against the author at this point because of the writing style. That's no reason to assume I've unveiled their hidden prejudices. Let me give her a chance, and go on to chapter two.
Second paragraph of chapter 2 ends:
(I assumed, given the extreme competition, these institutions weren't mourning Dad's absence from their "tight-knit circle of incest" - what he called highbrow academia.)
…CHANCE OVER.
You know what? I was going to read to the end of this chapter before adding more commentary. Really. I don't mean to stop every two pages to gape in horror, but sometimes I can't help it. I'm sorry, an author in a novel just cited themselves with a "(see below)" in the text. When. Do. You. EVER. Need. To. Do. That. WHARGHBLARGLE.
Okay, deep breaths…deep breaths…
…fucking seriously. Did the narrator just describe her experiences hopping from school system to school system by comparing herself to Jane Goodall. I am not kidding, exaggerating, or reading into the text. She explicitly compares herself to Jane Goodall. I swear to god, if I don't get some redeeming character trait before I'm halfway through this terrible, terrible penance I am just burning it and pissing on the ashes. She collects knick-knacks! She knits sweaters for the elderly and infirm! She doesn't spit on every hobo she encounters on the street! I AM WILLING TO SETTLE HERE.
Let me again venture into the hideous, tortured realm of direct quotation:
Dad picked up women the way certain wool pants can't help but pick up lint. For years I had a nickname for them, though I feel a little guilty using it now: June Bugs (see "Figeater Beetle," Ordinary Insects, Vol. 24).
That brief, passing admission of guilt? That is the most likable and/or sympathetic thing this narrator has done thus far. I shit you not. Also, that completely unnecessary pretentious citation? She's averaging about 1.5 of those per paragraph. The things I do for…why am I doing this again?
Then she goes through the "women" in an itemized list, putting each one down with a carefully chosen citation, sometimes without any apparent reason. End this chapter. Please. I beg you.
Sometimes June Bugs weren't too terrible. Some of the sweeter, more docile ones like poor, droopy-eyed Tally Meyerson, I actually felt sorry for, because even though Dad made no attempt to hide the fact they were as temporary as Scotch tape, most were blind to his indifference (see "Basset Hound," Dictionary of Dogs, Vol. 1).
To hell with ending the chapter, someone end my tortured existence.
There. I've made it to the end of chapter two. I'm on page 34. Of 514. I may not make it to the end of this, but I'm going to try. It's not a matter of curiosity anymore, or even humor. No, not even for the warm glow of attention from my flist. This book has hurt me. It has caused me physical pain. I will finish it as a matter of pride, nay, of honor.
AUT VINCERE, AUT MORI