Monthly Archives: April 2014
I fell heels over head in love with the first Bridget Jones’ diary, and though the sequel wasn’t as good I’ve been longing to read Mad about the boy.
It’s a so-called time document, I guess. Obsessing over Twitter follows (after having fingered out how twitter works), drunk texting, Botox, protein bars and video games. What could be more middle-aged-woman-with-family-2013? Feeling stressed and overworked, maybe. Or making special effort to show the reader all the sex, thoughts of sex, efforts to have sex…
Fielding is trying so hard to make it modern and that kind of backfires. I enjoyed the previous books more, they seemed more effortless and, I don’t know, generally wonderful. Maybe it’s because Bridget is older and therefore less like me, although I don’t think the life of 29 y/o jones has much in common with my life either.
Still, it was hilarious at some points, and definitely worth a read.
Often when I read I wonder if it really is fiction. Or if the author is describing their own life. If they have been through all they make their characters do. If actual people make up the characters, actual events the story.
For their sake, I hope not.
Except sometimes I do.
In a way I think it has to be. At least for me, it’s more or less impossible to describe an emotion I’ve never felt. I can write as if it was caused by something else, sure, but not… The emotion itself has to be intact.
If that is so, then how dare they publish? How much courage does it take to let the world see your inner life, or worse yet let the people you hate know what you feel? Like telling someone how you really feel about them (or your relationship, or what they have done) in a less direct way.
“There are no philosophical problems, only linguistic misunderstandings.”
“Did you know she’s anorexic?” He looks at me with honest concern, but I’m really just annoyed. It’s a fucking book, I think. I won’t get sick from reading it. It’s fiction, I don’t exactely use it as an instruction of ethics or whatever.
I don’t want others to mind my business, telling me what I should do or feel. I may not know everything, but I believe I have the ability to think. Some advise is too obtrusive, sometimes we see dangers that don’t exist. One of my favorite singers was “experimenting” with marijuana and LSD at the age of thirteen. I’m fifteen and haven’t even tried a cigarette, and never wanted to either. I’ve read a few books by an author who might have an eating disorder, without having one myself. Is that really so strange?
At the same time it’s impossible to “consume” fiction and not be affected. I mean, no one (I hope) use Joyce Carol Oates’ novels as a guide on ethics but… it’s impossible to shrug of every thought you get when reading as “a work of fiction”. And everything you see makes an impression, everyone who reads a certain book is in some way or another affected by the values it contains.
Similarly, it’s impossible not to be affected by expectations and others’ opinions. Sometimes reversed – a desire to rebel – but mostly we do what we are told will make us happy, or what the world wants us to do. I once got the question if I think playing with dolls when I was little gave me my picture of an ideal family, which I don’t think it did. I think my family (its awesomeness and its flaws) and the families I’ve met and heard of gave me my picture of an ideal family. An idea of what is normal, some ideas of what is good or bad. I also believe that if you see someone do something strange, dangerous or abnormal (et.c) enough times it will become part of your normal.
I don’t know what to think. I can get really mad at a book about women who are making themselves weak, men who act dominantly and cruelly, and that being described as if it was something normal. (read: Twilight) But I can read a book about a girl who is trying to protect her abusive father and not think much about its message. (read: Freaky Green Eyes). Am I one of those, who see messages only when they look for them, and only when they find it useful? I don’t want to be. God damn it, people are strange.
(a bit of track, but I’m reading a third and fourth book of Joyce Carol Oates. I think I like her, after all)