Books!

Fragile Things - The first story made me go O.O, and sneak into the study room at 3am in the morning, obstinately ignoring the fact that ominous computer light might wake the slumbering grandfather, and fling myself into the metaphorical arms of wikipedia. Because whatever Raving Critics say, I Do Not Get It, and I do not know Sherlock Holmes, or H.P Lovecraft, and OMG HOW WILL I TAKE LIT LIKE THAT. ))): The second story made me go O.O. The third story made me go O.O. The forth story made me think, hey, I can write a poem too. Neil Gaiman's short stories, I think, are written in a way that pleases him very much, and if I had written them, it would please me very very very very much. But reading them, it is really mostly O.O. Amongst all the literary/genre references and my poor comprehension of Great Literary Metaphors, there is little I can really pick out. ):

Anansi Boys - The beginning of which I stoned through, the middle of which I stoned through, the ending when I went all OMG LOVE!!!!!! That, and the author's notes at the end, because it is really nice to see how the careless reader (like me) can be subconsciously affected by not-so-subtle plot devices. Pretty, pretty, pretty. This is probably cheating, but having read the ending, it makes me want to reread the entire thing again, and see how sneakily and brilliantly he transforms.

Never Let Me Go - This is probably not the point, given the fact that this book was nominated for 93940294 prestigious pretentious book awards, but meh, it really is a page turner. Well, the author was clearly talented, and was the epitome of clear, to-the-point, somewhat still brilliant writing. But somehow, everything was so detached that the inevitability of the situation didn't turn out all that emotional. I suspect that the Great Dramatic Climax was an expression of the author's great love for and tribute to Literature and Art, but, really, O.O. Semi-wept at the ending, but what is it with emo endings about the breeze and shadows and passing away?

Great Expectations - Ho, ho. I still can't quite believe I read this, but it was really better than I thought. Partly because I was so surprised that Dickens actually wrote clearly and humorously. Wept semi-copiously at end of the book, IT IS OUR WEDDING DAY part reminded me of a very bad soap opera, but I suppose it was fitting. The ending was described as a fitting end to a twisted fairy tale. I say: do not be emo, do not talk about shadows of her passing.

Son of a Witch - The front parts made me very very unhappy, because apparently Gregory Maguire is the master of extreme bleakness. ): Everyone dies! Little oppressed runt of the litter! In front of his mother! The entire village! Because voila, your river is on fire! Great acts of parental love and sacrifice, after which everyone dies! And killed by, ho, the protagonist of the story! As much as I hate one-dimensional, altruistic, hawt (ho) heroes, I do not want to confront that much of our pseudo-hero's humanity, nor his pathetic stupidity. But, blah blah, Gregory Maguire is wonderful, blah blah. And of course, everything leads to a wonderful, beautiful ending, during which I wept copiously over birds, and over sentimental lines that would have sounded like cliche moralizing had it not been as well-phrased. And hope and cynicism, the futility of revolution, dramatic demonstrations that possibly do no good at all, the baby (!!!) and curiously, the HOMOSEXUALITY. Ho, LOVE, really!

Mercedes Lackey - HAHAHAHAHA. Excuse me. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. This is gay, soap opera-ish fantasy. Very enjoyable, in the trashy way, until, of course, our pubescent, silver-eyed, very very hawt and very very fey protagonist falls into bed with the other pubescent, hawt HOMO person after 50 pages of emo-ing and struggling with his sexual identity. And the worst thing is that the very next day, before the two of them have even managed to have a civil conversation, their unstable young minds declare everlasting love for each other. That, and (I will not deny it) the fact that there is not so much a passing description of even a HOMOSEXUAL KISS! ): Alas, trash is trash, will always be trash, I am off to watch trashy drama on youtube finish Fragile Things. Cough.

Such a pilgrimage were sweet, ho.

GO and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

-John Donne

This is what I need, to understand. And to finally realise just how sweet Neil Gaiman is. Bright, bright, hope. I so forgive you for the fifty cats. (:

I want to read, and to understand obscure literary references. To not simply swoon over pretty phrases, but to know how they come together and assimilate into something entirely new. I have no idea how I am supposed to do that, but I must at least try. So the March holidays are reserved for ink, paper, Microsoft Word and me. Blah blah Maguire yes we are deluded and we make of the hollow world a fuller, prettier place than it is, because secretly none of us mean anything. Not really. Blah blah. You are absolutely right, but I absolutely ignore you. (: One day I'll really understand you and see how you get from that to homo love and bright, hopeful closure.

I want answers. I suppose I'll have to deny everything before I can finally believe in anything. Because Gregory Maguire blah blah blah blah blah. I want to fight my way around you, I want answers, and I suppose I will find them, however I have to.

!!!

Intellectual snobbery is complete rubbish. It is so pretentious and possibly tormenting to the self to be what society - no, what you expect yourself to be. So I am pleasantly surprised by Dickens, who proved to be a lot more readable than I would have thought, and has such sophistication in his writing. He has confirmed my hypothesis that talent is talent and words transcend everything. Really, I never would have thought any ancient writer capable for humour that is still relevant today!

So I readily admit my love for Dickens (who is a recognised Great Author and hailed with praise by critics dead and alive), but I will also not hesitate to shout out that OMG I LOVE HANA KIMI. Like, LOVE LOVE LOVE (but, really, Debbie Lee, it is all your fault, and Karen Er, you better be as obsessed as I am O.O).

Who cares if it is absolute rubbish, and has 2349493 plot holes, and the actors actor (HA!) stones through every single scene mono-expressioned. It makes me happy, and against all reason, the uninspired song with ungrammatical sentences (like, HELLO, there is no poetic license in Chinese) makes me happy. In the time of emoness (on my side), I embrace anything which brings me such unbridled joy. (:

So, now, OIMAN, you have no blackmail material on me. But oh ho ho, think of what I have on you!