The Lady of the Camellias
A thunderstorm at teatime! It cleared the air and cooled the world enough that I could in fact have tea, which was lovely. (I was organizing my tags last night, and you guys, I had not realized how much I post about tea. Which reminds me, assuming that no one falls deathly ill over night, tomorrow I am having an Oreo tea with Emma and Rick. Did you guys know there are watermelon Oreos? I wouldn't have believed it either, but I have photographic proof!
However, they will not be gracing tomorrow's tea. We got a bag yesterday, and they taste sort of like Jolly Ranchers or watermelon bubblegum, which makes them oddly refreshing...but mostly odd. We shall be having peanut butter Oreos instead.)
But back to my thunderstorm tea! Usually I read something with my tea, and I considered reading more Les Miserables. I have achieved page nine hundred! The end is in sight! Okay, three hundred pages away; but still, on the horizon.
Marius has dropped the creepy stalker baton, Eponine has picked it up, Marius finally went to see his grandfather, who offered him money, which Marius refused even though it would have allowed him to be happy with Cosette because Marius is just special like that -
- and now he is marching off to the barricades. Everyone is going to die there, and as such I find myself loathe to go on reading.
So instead I read Alexandre Dumas fils novel Camille (which is also called The Lady of the Camellias, which has the advantage of actually making sense), which at a mere two hundred pages seemed breathlessly svelte. Also, compared to Les Mis, rather slight: it tells the tragic tale of a young man who falls in love with a courtesan, believes himself betrayed by her, and realizes only too late how truly she loved him.
Naturally it was rather schlocky. But I was prepared for it to be failtastic (it's a French guy! Writing about women! Women who have sex! How many ways could this go wrong?), so schlocky was almost a relief.
It's had a ton of theatrical adaptations (including one with young Colin Firth), and I can see why. The outlines of the story overflow with feeling, and I suspect with good actors there's not a dry eye in the house by the end.
But the writing (or rather the translation): well, it's quite pacey, and I had a good time reading it - but that's just it; for a tragedy, I shouldn't be able to say "It's a fun book!", at least not without adding caveats of the "but in a soul-crushing way" variety. So it's a good read, but for me, at least, Dumas didn't quite accomplish what he meant to.
However, they will not be gracing tomorrow's tea. We got a bag yesterday, and they taste sort of like Jolly Ranchers or watermelon bubblegum, which makes them oddly refreshing...but mostly odd. We shall be having peanut butter Oreos instead.)
But back to my thunderstorm tea! Usually I read something with my tea, and I considered reading more Les Miserables. I have achieved page nine hundred! The end is in sight! Okay, three hundred pages away; but still, on the horizon.
Marius has dropped the creepy stalker baton, Eponine has picked it up, Marius finally went to see his grandfather, who offered him money, which Marius refused even though it would have allowed him to be happy with Cosette because Marius is just special like that -
- and now he is marching off to the barricades. Everyone is going to die there, and as such I find myself loathe to go on reading.
So instead I read Alexandre Dumas fils novel Camille (which is also called The Lady of the Camellias, which has the advantage of actually making sense), which at a mere two hundred pages seemed breathlessly svelte. Also, compared to Les Mis, rather slight: it tells the tragic tale of a young man who falls in love with a courtesan, believes himself betrayed by her, and realizes only too late how truly she loved him.
Naturally it was rather schlocky. But I was prepared for it to be failtastic (it's a French guy! Writing about women! Women who have sex! How many ways could this go wrong?), so schlocky was almost a relief.
It's had a ton of theatrical adaptations (including one with young Colin Firth), and I can see why. The outlines of the story overflow with feeling, and I suspect with good actors there's not a dry eye in the house by the end.
But the writing (or rather the translation): well, it's quite pacey, and I had a good time reading it - but that's just it; for a tragedy, I shouldn't be able to say "It's a fun book!", at least not without adding caveats of the "but in a soul-crushing way" variety. So it's a good read, but for me, at least, Dumas didn't quite accomplish what he meant to.