You may have noticed that I haven’t updated recently. I’ve been having Internet connection problems, but have also been mega busy in the lead-up to holidays. I know, I know – lame excuses. But they are unlikely to change in the coming weeks.

So until then, The Friande is going to have to go on hiatus. Actually, all my blogging activity – including regularly reading some of the awesome blogs out there (you know who you are) – will be on a break.

It’s ok though: it’s just a break, it’s not like the relationship is over.

Hope Santa brings you all something awesome this year!

- The Friande

PS How awesome is the new Harry Potter movie?!

A Confederacy of Dunces is set in the early ‘60s of New Orleans, written by John Kennedy Toole in 1969, but not published until 1980 through the perseverance of his mother (read: the stalking of an influential professor until the man succumbed and read the carbon manuscript) after Toole’s suicide.

The first thing you should know about the novel is that its title was derived from a Jonathan Swift quote:

“When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.”

I guess the next thing is to meet Ignatius J. Reilly: protagonist of A Confederacy of Dunces, and a self-styled genius. Forced by his mother to get a job (his first), he drags his 30 year old, university educated obese ass to gain employment as a filing clerk and, later, as a hot dog vendor. This doesn’t stop him from waging a one-man war against modernity, vices, and pretty much anything going against his principles of “taste and decency” and “proper theology and geometry”.

Actually, have an excerpt from Ignatius’ Journal of a Working Boy:

“… I was emulating the poet Milton by spending my youth in seclusion, meditation, and study in order to perfect my craft of writing as he did; my mother’s cataclysmic intemperance has thrust me into the world in the most cavalier manner; my system is still in a state of flux. Therefore, I am still in the process of adapting myself to the tension of the working world. As soon as my system becomes used to the office, I shall take the giant step of visiting the factory…”

Statue of Ignatius erected in New Orleans. The book is one of the most accurate depictions of the city & its dialects. The statue is placed in the exact spot where the novel opens and we first meet Ignatius.

Thirdly, A Confederacy of Dunces is a picaresque novel. A bizarre word, it refers, apparently, to a satirical novel following a lower-class hero as he steers his way through a corrupt society. The result was that I couldn’t stand more than two characters (for any curious creatures out there, I liked Jones, an African American worker, and Dorian Greene, a flamingly gay man living in the French Quarter and who threw awesome parties), because I felt the need to slap a bit of sense into everyone else. This is a good thing.

You see, in satire, authors sometimes sacrifice realism to get their readers to emit ‘haha’ noises or, perhaps more nobly, to make the moral of the story clear. Toole doesn’t do this. His characters are realistic, and, yes, annoying, but you simply can’t hold it against such exquisite flesh and blood creations!

The downside is that I probably didn’t find this novel as funny as I thought I would; strangely enough, I kept worrying about everything … for example, Ignatius (and what an excellent name!) decides that filing is a fire hazard and, more to the point, unnecessary, so just empties out the filing cabinet and throws  out any new papers that come his way. While his unknowing boss is floored by the latest hire’s filing speed, my brain is meanwhile churning up scenarios where something drastic happens, due to, you guessed it, the missing files. Or I’d be fretting about Ignatius’ mother paying off her debt.

Stupid brain.

But now that I’ve seen how everything turns out – very satisfactory, fate weaved a complex little tale of coincidences – I think I could go back and read the novel again just for laughs.

John Kennedy Toole

Ignatius is one of the most fantastic characters I’ve ever met: eloquent yet gassy, boisterous yet almost vulnerably private. A more unlikeable character I couldn’t imagine (unless he or she kicked puppies) but in spite of Ignatius’ numerous defects, the reader feels a grudging sympathy for the lazy slob.

And who hasn’t wanted, at least once, to be like Ignatius? To sit in a cinema and unreservedly yell at the screen’s latest flick catering to the dunces of our time (I’m looking at you, Avatar), or to write scathing replies to bothersome letters of complaint, or even to inspire a riot in the workplace?

Then again, forget what I said about Bridget Jones, it’s an unemployed and overweight man, who alternates between his bed, the cinema, and his television, that I don’t want to end up as when I’m 30.

Before I leave you to your devices, I’m going to include another extract from Ignatius’ journal. Because I’m awesome like that. Here is our ill-tempered hero talking about his latest assignment from his boss, Clyde: to wheel the hot dog cart around the dreaded French Quarter.

“The grandeur of my physique, the complexity of my worldview, the decency ad taste implicit in my carriage, the grace with which I function in the mire of today’s world – all of these at once confuse and astound Clyde. Now he has relegated me to working in the French Quarter, an area which houses every vice that man has ever conceived in his wildest aberrations, including, I would imagine, several modern variants made possible through the wonders of science.”

Where Ignatius' mum hit the poles with her car, thereby getting into debt & starting the whole chain of events.

Check out this cool blog, Ignatius’ Ghost, which takes you on a tour of New Orleans’ locations as mentioned in A Confederacy of Dunces!

Q. Please highlight one of your favorite books and why you would consider it “literary.”

A. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Because it’s quite awesome.

Ok, not exactly an ‘A’ worthy answer. Let’s get into details.

I started this blog a few months ago to get through the 100 Books You Must Read Before You Die list, which was (surprise, surprise!) comprised mostly of literature. Motivation? People kept telling me I wasn’t allowed to judge books that I hadn’t read. Pfft.

In any case, this blog follows my spectacular(?) reading journey, so I figured The Blue Bookcase’s Literary Book Hop was the perfect chance to share one of my favourite books with you.

I am talking about, of course, Oscar Wilde’s fabulous The Picture of Dorian Gray (published in 1890).

Long-time readers (and I adore you all!) are probably unsurprised at this not-so-startling revelation; I have exhibited a certain penchant for hedonistic characters before.

The plot recounts the life of Dorian Gray (duh), a man obsessed with youth and beauty. By an undefined twist of fate, his “soul” is transferred to a magnificent portrait of himself. Gray is blessed with good looks and youth forever, whereas his effigy bears the signs of his evil deeds and aging body.

If you’re confused, it pays to know that Victorians believed in physical appearance as a representation of the sort of person you are – they used to make moulds of criminals’ faces after their death so that scientists could figure out commonalities, and, therefore, apprehend future wrongdoers.

Anyway.

I did a giant literary criticism essay on The Picture of Dorian Gray, but before I can tell you why the book is so “literary”, we have to figure out what literature is. Ready, kiddos?

Literature, to me, is something that resonates with a lot of people, and continues its resonating well past the year of publication. Meaning a) the book’s written beautifully; and b) it has substance, because, whatever the work’s about, it touches something deep within you.

Phew, I sound like I’ve inhaled a little too much incense.

Oscar Wilde

Ostentatiously a satire in gothic form, I adored The Picture of Dorian Gray because it was filled with this brilliantly witty social commentary. Seriously – 99% of the book is quotable. Aesthetic merit? A big tick.

Now, Dorian Gray was bi-sexual in a time when having a little gay sex was enough to earn you a jail sentence (just ask Oscar Wilde). Moreover, Gray’s other hobbies included hanging out in opium dens, being self-centred, and playing with people’s feelings. Gasp! Ok, yeah, he ended up killing people, but whatever.

Basically: The Picture of Dorian Gray is an exploration of morality and identity. Is doing drugs enough to tarnish your soul? Wanting to stay beautiful forever? What about acting on your homosexual feelings? Having threesomes? Deciding to repent because it feels nice to “do the right thing” rather than from any desire to be good?

Apparently so. Enough for a homosexual man to punish himself for not conforming with society’s worldview. Has much changed since then?

The disappointing 2009 movie adaption

Now some people say that the novel is “immoral” and “depraved” and blah blah blah; but they can stick to their little widdle safe books like Anne of Green Gables and Austen oh-so-scandalous society gossip.

Because, like Dorian Gray and his portrait, the book works as a confronting representation of a reader’s ideals – do you like what you see?

Dear diary,

Another fabulous day in the sun, finishing up Bridget Jones’s Diary, and getting my tan ready for summer. Unfortunately, the sun seemed intent on moving from one side of the sky to another, so now half my body is tanner than the rest. Meaning that, despite my detest for tan lines, there is a (note: singular) bikini line next to my left collarbone.

Gah.

On to less pressing matters: like pretty much everyone I know, I’d watched the movie version of Bridget Jones’s Diary before reading Helen Fielding’s book. Luckily, this was ages ago, so I wasn’t stuck second-guessing the plot every five seconds (which, by the way, occured whilst reading His Dark Materials).

Have a bullet point list of Thoughts on the book: 

• It inspired manifestations of LOL-ness at most inopportune moments i.e. when in public
• Brutally honest (particularly the bit about a woman’s relationship with food)
• Basically, some nice, easy reading…
• … Holy shit – what if I turn out to be a 30-something Singleton in a dead-end career?!
• Cue panic
• Appease panic with some marzipan coated in dark chocolate

Renée Zellweger as Bridget Jones

The other day (by which I mean Halloween), I went over a friend’s to watch DVDs, and we ended up with Bridget Jones’s Diary, amongst other, decidedly non-scary, movies. Though, I suppose, it depends on your definition of scary; for me, that impromptu speech at the book launch party of Bridget’s was plenty frightening.

Obviously, I’d forgotten how funny Renée Zellweger was.

You, my dearest diary of them all, know how I suffer from secondary embarrassment, so it was unsurprising that I spent a significant portion of the movie hiding behind a pillow in sympathetic shame to Bridget’s antics. As a book-lover (which, ew, I sound like someone who wears aprons and unfashionable reading glasses by turns), I’m naturally apprehensive about movie adaptions, but it seems that the Chick Lit genre is far more tolerable in movie form. See Confessions of a Shopaholic and The Devil Wears Prada. Clearly, the camera is mightier than the pen.

Helen Fielding

Ok, so I’ve just come back from practising some Google-fu and have learnt that:

• Lilly Allen is involved in a musical adaption of Bridget Jones’s Diary. Will this make it’s way down to Australia, I wonder? Methinks not. Sigh.
• Helen Fielding named her kids Dash and Romy. Poor, poor kids. Or are they puppies? Perhaps reindeer? Speaking of which, Jamie Oliver named his kid Buddy Bear. Wtf. Though I suppose celebs can at least afford future psychological help for their little darlings.
• There is a third novel/movie in the works. Rather exciting, yes? Oh, and the book was first conceptualised in a column for some British newspaper (which is where the much anticipated third novel may be found).

I guess I should bring my first (and last) diary entry to a close. Actually, Bridget Jones never started her entries with the words ‘dear diary’, instead listing her weight, cigarette and alcohol intake for the day. Probably because she didn’t want to sound like a 13-year-old girl.

Oh, and since you were wondering, my darling diary, I didend up (sort of) celebrating Halloween – I watched Supernatural’s ‘The Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester’ during a handy suburb-wide blackout.

(Btw, has anyone noticed that all the recent books I’ve read either had the number 4 or 6 in their 100 Books’ list number? Bizarre.)

Love, The Friande

I live in Australia; hence the British spelling, frequent bouts of spell-check rage at WordPress, and, according to an American friend, a distinct lack of sugary breakfast options. Even worse, we don’t celebrate Halloween.

I know, right?!

Apparently, a bunch of old people like whining about cultural imperialism and the Australian identity, but hello? Why wouldn’t you want to import a holiday with candies and costumes and faux-scary decorations?

(The one and only time I went trick-or-treating in my neighbourhood, I got a long lecture about how how we should be proud of our national history, yada yada, and was rewarded for my attention by a grudgingly presented muesli bar).

Then again, Australians barely celebrate Christmas as it is, or at least in comparison to our European counterparts, so anything extra is probably too hard to scrounge up.

Why would a 130 page book need to be abridged anyway??

So my version of celebrating Halloween Down Under is reading Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw, first published in 1898.

A governess is hired for two orphans adopted by a rich guy who, incidentally, dislikes children (he and I have that in common). She then starts seeing ghosts that are supposedly trying to entice the kids away from their nice, safe existence? Or trying to make the kids commit some sin? Or existing only in her head all along?

You see, Henry James, like most of his Victorian contemporaries, didn’t like his writing to mention anything “base” (immoral/evil/anything to do with the lower class). Meaning, of course, that modern readers are a little ‘wtf?’ when it comes to discerning what he doesn’t say – what the ghosts actually did. Supposedly Victorian readers knew immediately what Henry James was attempting to talk around, but that easy understanding has been lost over the years.

Speaking of whom, Henry James sure loves his punctuation. It’s like reading a academic’s first attempt at prose. Have an example sentence:

There were exactly states of the air, conditions of sound and of stillness, unspeakable impressions of the kind of ministering moment, that brought back to me, long enough to catch it, the feeling of the medium in which, that June evening out of doors, I had had my first sight of Quint, and in which too, at those other instants, I had, after seeing him through the window, looked for him in vain in the circle of shrubbery.

That’s one educated governess.

Anyway, it was rather enjoyable to read this book out loud, probably because of all the commas, but I did have to wait until I was home alone to do so. Because, awkward. Still, I’m quite happy we don’t write like that anymore; how on earth would we have invented Twitter?

Henry James

The Turn of the Screw was an ok story; open-ended but not so substantial that I spent any large amount of time attempting to interpret the story. The majority of the book was read on a beach (which probably would have ruined my burgeoning Halloween vibe, if the novella’s author hadn’t already done so).

Evidently, Henry James was going for that ‘it’s scary because it’s so realistic’ technique, by choosing to avoid flickering lights/eerie wails/etc, but I think he went a little overboard, since the ghosts enjoyed doing nothing more than standing and staring at you for no apparent reason.

It seems that Henry James’ ghostly apparitions would do well to join Dracula at a bar for a couple of beers, as well as a discussion on how much it sucks not being able to do anything remotely villainous and/or frightening. All the while, being shunned by the next table, filled with the likes of Mr Rochester’s mad wife, Mr Hyde, and pretty much every Edgar Allan Poe character.

So what I’m going to do is decide that The Turn of The Screw is a psyhocological thriller: an enraged governess goes crazy after realising she has less authority then a condescending 10 year old (?) boy, due, of course, to her lesser status in society, which also leaves her unable to catch her douchebag employer’s eye, despite inexplicably falling in love with him after two short meetings. Mmm, see? Much more satisfying, and quite an excellent read.

This, my dearest readers, is what Jane Eyre should have been.

Happy Halloween, my pets!

My latest post over there is an interview with self-published author John Mellor, but I’ve also uploaded that blurb rant of mine to the Opinion section. I figured the latter was as good was as any to introduce myself…

Keep your eyes peeled, folks.

First of all – what a bizarre title! Yes, it comes from a quote in the book, but I still have no clue what bones are lovely, and why, exactly, bones are lovely in the first place.

Secondly, my best friend lent this book to me, saying that I was going to detest it. She certainly had a point – any weepy, and/or ‘meaningful’ plots lose my interest in 0.5 seconds flat, including, but not limited to, novels’ whose blurbs that contain the words “… a touching story”. Erm, no thanks. I’d much rather read a story where ‘action’ isn’t a synonym for an emotional breakthrough.

Having said all that – and you know what I’m going write next, don’t you? – it wasn’t all bad. In fact the only bad parts were a) the ending, because those paragraphs read like an inspirational fridge magnet; and b) the weird part where a character possessed someone’s body to get laid.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It’s the late 70’s in Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones, and Susie Salmon was brutally raped and murdered at fourteen. She spends the rest of her non-life alternating between chilling in heaven and watching her family, friends, and even her killer, continue their lives on Earth. Slightly voyeuristic, eh?

Alice Sebold

The Lovely Bones is a pretty light read. I’m not saying it’s fluffy or anything (aside from the aforementioned fridge magnet), but the author doesn’t feel the need to whack her readers over the head with how much of a traumatic experience the protagonist went though. Nor do we have to endure long descriptions about all the grief Susie’s family members are grieving about.  Sebold seems quite content to let her readers grasp characters’ feelings quite intuitively, which goes a long way towards stopping The Lovely Bones from degenerating into a giant chick flick moment.

The author also injects a touch of sinister atmosphere every now and then, reminding us, ‘hello, ghostly dead girl narrating the story here.’ Sure, there’s all the noise about whether or not Susie’s killer – her next door neighbour – will be discovered, but what I particularly liked was Ruth’s visions of dead women. Ruth, a girl who barely spoke to Susie when she was alive, became obsessed, and, indeed, in love with Susie after her death. Ruth’s fixation triggered her (latent?) psychic abilities, adding the perfect amount of intrigue to the novel’s ambience.

Saoirse Ronan as Susie Salmon in The Lovely Bones movie

I did my typical nosing around after finishing The Lovely Bones, and learnt that Sebold was sexually assaulted walking home one night from university. Which was a little awkward to discover. I honestly couldn’t have picked it; The Lovely Bones has none of that harrowing experience vibe going for it. Hopefully, Sebold was able to get some closure from her writing.

On the flip side, The Lovely Bones is so focused on women, that it excludes the opposite gender. Apparently women are the only ones vulnerable to rape and murder.

Which leads on to what I found so interesting about the novel – inasmuch as a book is able to embody a gender, not to be confused with a genre, The Lovely Bones is intensely female. I already mentioned how readers are expected to grasp the novel intuitively; aside from Susie’s killer, every male character is loving, sensitive, forgiving, perceptive and, excluding their ‘male’ (it was the 70′s) occupations, inhabit stereotypical female attributes. It’s like Sebold created this familiar and comforting world just for one gender.

Here, then, is how I would describe the novel: a graceful and, well, lovely book, that doesn’t shy away from, nor ever display ostentatiously, its grisly bare bones.

Like any art form, a book reveals plenty about its creator.

For example, Thomas Hardy was rather obsessed with farming being, like, the way of life.

Or, at least, that’s what reading Far From the Madding Crowd (1874) led me to assume. I could be wrong.

Something else I learnt was that, while it seemed that Mr Hardy was overcompensating whenever he launched into avid details of every square centimetre in a room, in actuality, he considered himself to be a bonafide, beret-wearing poet.

Think neon signs throughout the book, proclaiming, ‘I’m still a real writer, dammit, even if I’ve sold out to magazine serials.’

No clue how good he was at poetry, but he certainly had talent for describing characters, if not the setting. It boggled me why no one had told Mr Hardy that readers were fully capable of filling in any gaps left open by a book. Having to visualise the exact décor, layout, and atmosphere of a room before getting to the action or, rather, exposition, was considerably trying. And slow.

Thomas Hardy

Mr Hardy wrote this neat little tale about Bathsheba Everdene – a terrible, terrible name – who fended off three suitors whilst inheriting the running of a farm. Being a product of my time, much like Mr Hardy was of his, I spent the majority of the book rolling my eyes at the typical, repressed fare that Victorians liked to serve up regularly (minus the cherries on top) about appropriate behaviour.

But then I thought – it was all a little too typical, wasn’t it?

You see, Mr Hardy, the sly old goat, smirked his way through the writing process. By creating a conventional story with characters behaving in proper ways, he managed to subversively cause his readers to question the logic behind social rules (particularly in regards to marriage). Though he explored such issues with more gutso in his later novels, Tess of the d’Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure, Far From the Madding Crowd was certainly forward thinking.

Shame about the narrator’s Mr Hardy’s sexist comments on every second page.

True, they could be excused as standard for his day, but what made me laugh was that, it wasn’t women that our author had a problem with. Oh no, Mr Hardy seemed to have a personal issue with attractive women.

I guess it goes part and parcel with liking farming or whatever, but Mr Hardy strongly asserted that being pretty leads to all sorts of horrible things. Like vanity, and people living in cities, and dozens of men falling in love with one beautiful women, whilst all those poor, ugly, women that the love-struck men would have married were stuck with no prospects.

In fact, the narrator Mr Hardy made it very clear that Bathsheba should feel guilty for being so good-looking.

Methinks Mr Hardy was a tad bitter, yes?

(If you’re curious, Mr Hardy’s first marriage broke up because his wife lost her looks, leading him to seek out other companionship).

Original illustration of Sergeant Troy & Bathsheba

Like I said, it’s fascinating what one can deduce about the writer of a book, though it could feel like I’m prying a little too much. But sometimes I simply felt embarrassed on behalf of the author – *cough* Stephanie Myer *cough*.

Anyway, I had a less than stellar opinion of Far From the Madding Crowd – I picked it up because I was in the mood for an era piece, but didn’t want to subject myself to Jane Austen’s riveting gossip. It ended up being a soap opera love triangle quadrilateral that Austen would have been proud of. Except it was set on a farm.

Nevertheless, I found Mr Hardy to be far more compelling than his own characters, and I’m sort of looking forward to reading Tess of the d’Ubervilles and Jude the Obscure, if only to learn more about Mr Hardy’s motivations. And hopefully be in for further Zoolander references.

I even made a pie chart of the most recommended books, one of which was Anne of Green Gables. You spoke, and I answered: Anne of Green Gables has finally been both read and reviewed by yours truly. Interested in my thoughts? You’d better be.

However, you won’t find my commentary here. No, my young padawans, you must go on a quest (or simply click your mouse, whichever terminology you prefer) to read my Guest Review over at The Blue Bookcase. It’s a bit of a different format to what I’m used to, so let me know your thoughts.

The most recommended books (by three or more people).

If you are here from The Blue Bookcase – hi! My name’s Ilona, I can’t stand long walks on the beach, and there’s no way I’m going to tell you my star sign because you could be some creepy stalker. I started this reading 100 Books thing a few months ago. It was actually after I got tired of people telling me I couldn’t insult Jane Austen until I had read her work. Pfft, details, details; I found my oh-so-witty insults were definitely warranted.

Anyway, have a look around, say hello, and feel free to curl up on my (metaphorical) couch with a good book.

Item the second: Todd Pack was kind enough to pass on another of those Versatile Blogger awards to me here. I’ve previously received the award before, so click here if you’re interested in my natterings about myself.

Item the third: The Book Blog Hop – I decided to participate this weekend, and the question was: When you write your reviews do you write them as you’re reading or after you finished the book? Um, I write them when I’m done with the book, but I also have a notebook to write notes in because I have a terrible long-term memory. Actually, as soon as I write something down, it gets etched into my long-term memory, thereby making the notebook kind of pointless. Except that it isn’t. But you know what I mean.

Le Morte Darthur (The Death of Arthur) by Sir Thomas Mallory was my latest project.

The book was subtitled ‘The Hoole Book of Kyng Arthur and of His Noble Knythes of the Rounde Table’. Yes, I read it in Old English, or, apparently, an early form of modern English.

It was a terrible, terrible decision.

In my defence, I thought it would be neat to hold a little piece of history in my hands, i.e. one of the earliest written and most comprehensive collections of Arthurian legends. I’m uncertain if the book was representative of how people talked back in the days, or simply how books were written, but you may rest assured that I’m really glad I wasn’t living in 1469.

You see, actually reading Le Morte Darthur wasn’t difficult – it was the content that was absolutely excruciating.

Let me give you an example of a paragraph in part one, ‘Fro the Maryage of Kynge Uther unto Kyng Arthure that Regned Aftir Hym and Ded Many Batayles’. The following excerpt is exactly as it appears in the book, but with modernised spelling (courtesy of yours truly, I’m rather wonderful like that).

And so they went home and unarmed themselves, and so went to supper. And after supper the three kings went into a garden and gave praises to Sir Kay and to Sir Lucas the Butler and to Sir Gryfflet. And then they went into council, and with them Genbaus, brother to Kings Ban and Bors, a wise clerk; and also went Ulphuns, Brascias and Merlion [Merlin]. And after they had been in their council they went to bed. And in the morning they had Masse, and to dinner [breakfast] and so to their council, and argued about what was best to do.

You probably hate me now, right? I mean, it was like reading a story written by an eight-year-old – “and then this happened, and then this, and oh! What do you mean the details of how often meals are served aren’t vital to the tale?”

BBC's Merlin

I don’t know about Malory, but when I read a book, it’s mandatory for there to be some character development or, at the very least, characterisation. Also a few setting descriptions wouldn’t go amiss, and, while we’re at it, I prefer my plot to be more than a bullet pointed war chronology that happens to be written out in prose form.

I admit I only read about one third of part one and gave up – The Death of Arthur indeed. From now on, I’m going to stick to Wikipedia for my Arthurian legends, and to BBC’s Merlin for my regular hit of shenanigans committed by a prince and his secretly-a-sorcerer manservant.

Fun Fact: Sir Thomas Malory, or, at least, the man that academics seem to agree on as being the most likely to have written Le Morte Darthur, was actually a criminal. He went to jail a bunch of times, for stealing, raping, extortion etc. What I want to know is: how is it possible for a man steal 335 sheep in one day?!