(no subject)
This is me, writing about reading. Shortly, I am back to writing.
Eat
Pray
Love
I am sure that a jillion of you have heard that you should read this, but I am telling you:
no. Really. I started this book and within twelve pages, I was weeping. In public. And I don't do that sort of thing in front of people. Granted, I don't weep like a wailing Italian widow in a grand movie scene, but it was still significant for me.
This book is the account of this writer who traveled for a year as she was adjusting to the incomprehensible loss that comes with divorce. This woman, Elizabeth Gilbert, writes with what feels, to me, like a breezy effortlessness that almost hurts me. She is conversational and accessible. I love this woman. I understand this woman. I am this woman.
I thought I'd insert a few bits from that first part that grabbed me.
- - - - - - - - - - -
My husband was sleeping in the other room. I equal parts loved him and could not stand him. I couldn't wake him to share in my distress-what would be the point? He'd already been watching me fall apart for months now, watching me behave like a madwoman (we both agreed on that word), and I only exhausted him. We both knew there was something wrong with me, and he'd been losing patience with it. We'd been fighting and crying, and we were weary in that way that only a couple whose marriage is collapsing can be weary. We had the eyes of refugees.
(And then it goes on for a bit and she continues...)
I also will not discuss here all the reasons why I did still want to be his wife, or his wonderfulness, or why I loved him and why I had married him and why I was unable to imagine life without him. I won't open any of that. Let it be sufficient to say that, on this night, he was still my lighthouse and my albatross in equal measure. The only think more unthinkable than leaving was staying; the only thing more impossible than staying was leaving. I didn't want to destroy anything or anybody. I just wanted to slip quietly out the back door, without causing any fuss or consequences, and then not stop running until I reached Greenland.
- - - - - - - - - - -
I didn't know how clearly that could be articulated. How floored I was as I sat in my seat, trapped between a window and the grumpiest midwesterner I have ever seen. In spite of my long travel day and this grinch of the air, I smiled at the way she took me to Naples and Florence. Her writing about food and Italian men is also incredibly appetizing. I can't wait to follow this writer to India, and Indonesia. Best fifteen dollars I have spent in a while.
Eat
Pray
Love
I am sure that a jillion of you have heard that you should read this, but I am telling you:
no. Really. I started this book and within twelve pages, I was weeping. In public. And I don't do that sort of thing in front of people. Granted, I don't weep like a wailing Italian widow in a grand movie scene, but it was still significant for me.
This book is the account of this writer who traveled for a year as she was adjusting to the incomprehensible loss that comes with divorce. This woman, Elizabeth Gilbert, writes with what feels, to me, like a breezy effortlessness that almost hurts me. She is conversational and accessible. I love this woman. I understand this woman. I am this woman.
I thought I'd insert a few bits from that first part that grabbed me.
- - - - - - - - - - -
My husband was sleeping in the other room. I equal parts loved him and could not stand him. I couldn't wake him to share in my distress-what would be the point? He'd already been watching me fall apart for months now, watching me behave like a madwoman (we both agreed on that word), and I only exhausted him. We both knew there was something wrong with me, and he'd been losing patience with it. We'd been fighting and crying, and we were weary in that way that only a couple whose marriage is collapsing can be weary. We had the eyes of refugees.
(And then it goes on for a bit and she continues...)
I also will not discuss here all the reasons why I did still want to be his wife, or his wonderfulness, or why I loved him and why I had married him and why I was unable to imagine life without him. I won't open any of that. Let it be sufficient to say that, on this night, he was still my lighthouse and my albatross in equal measure. The only think more unthinkable than leaving was staying; the only thing more impossible than staying was leaving. I didn't want to destroy anything or anybody. I just wanted to slip quietly out the back door, without causing any fuss or consequences, and then not stop running until I reached Greenland.
- - - - - - - - - - -
I didn't know how clearly that could be articulated. How floored I was as I sat in my seat, trapped between a window and the grumpiest midwesterner I have ever seen. In spite of my long travel day and this grinch of the air, I smiled at the way she took me to Naples and Florence. Her writing about food and Italian men is also incredibly appetizing. I can't wait to follow this writer to India, and Indonesia. Best fifteen dollars I have spent in a while.