"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will."

So, I didn't finish my Fall Fashion Series.

BOO!

But I will. I just haven't been in the mood. This is why I'm a shite journalist--I only write about what I want to write about when I feel like writing it. Bad for business...but I guess it's a good thing I'm not getting paid for this. =)

Classes have been going well. I'm in a couple of classes I love: Practical Criticism, which is basically just a course in close-reading, and British Authors, which focuses exclusively on Emily and Charlotte Bronte this semester. The class usually focuses on Oscar Wilde (CAN YOU IMAGINE?!?), so I was a little bothered that I missed a semester of Wilde. But I do love the Brontes, so it's not that big of a disappointment.

We've just finished our first novel, The Secret.


It's a series of short stories that Charlotte wrote when she was 14. Here's the deal: the Brontes had a miserable life. There were six originally, but the eldest two sisters died at ages 11 and 10 (due to malnourishment, cold, and horrid diseases contracted at an all-girls boarding school. Jane Eyre, anyone??), which left Branwell (the only son), Charlotte, Emily and Anne. To entertain themselves in the dismal hell-hole that was 19th century Yorkshire, they wrote stories in serialized format, like a magazine. Charlotte and Branwell formed a team, and Emily and Anne formed another team, and then the pairs would switch each week, reading the other set's stories. Which is pretty clever. But anyway, all the stories in The Secret take place in Charlotte's imaginary world of Verdopolis. It's a poorly kept secret that the Bronte's indulged in imaginary play until their mid to late twenties, earning them the label of insane. But Verdopolis is one of those worlds.

Emily and Charlotte were the two who most indulged in their worlds of Verdopolis, Angria and Gondal. As children, they based the characters off a set of twelve toy soldiers that their father bought for Branwell. They wrote the stories on these itty bitty little books the size of MATCHBOXES. INSANE.



The Angria manuscripts to scale. TINY.

Anyway, The Secret was fascinating. Here's the synopsis, per Amazon:

A rollicking adventure from the Brontës’ imagined kingdom of Verdopolis, The Secret is a novel of intrigue, duplicity, and all-conquering love.

Arthur, the Marquis of Douro, his beautiful wife, Marion, and their infant son lead a happy and carefree existence in the city of Verdopolis—until a chance encounter brings the youthful Marchioness’ childhood governess back into their lives. The meeting proves to be the catalyst for an increasingly tortuous series of events involving blackmail, imposture, and shocking revelations regarding the birth of the young Marchioness. Will the Marquis ever forgive his wife her secret?


The synopsis is accurate. It's a great story; very interesting and one of those "whoa, what's going to happen next?" The only place it lacks is character development. However, considering that she was only fourteen, I am blown away by the quality of her writing. Holding it next to the crap I wrote at fourteen makes me look legally retarded. It's extremely interesting, and I'd love to read the rest of the Tales of Angria. She writes her world of Verdopolis and the Glass City with the mastery of myth-makers. She bestows a mythic, legendary, god-like feel to her characters. They become identifiable in the way that Hermes and Hera are (her heroine always wears flowers in her hair and has hazel eyes and a pet dove; the villainess always wears black and red velvet and black plumage in her hair. Even without naming them, the reader recognizes them when they appear.). It's fascinating, and worth a read. It's a quick, easy read too. I think I spent probably an hour and a half total reading the entirety of the book. DEFINITELY recommend it.


The Bronte family, purportedly drawn by Branwell. From L-R: Emily, Charlotte, Branwell and Anne.

Short Stories Read This Semester So Far That I'd Recommend:

1. "A Rose for Emily," by William Faulkner. This is probably my second favorite short story ever written. I LOVE it. It is utterly creeptacular, and so well-written. Also (SPOILER ALERT!), it's about necrophilia, and you don't find that out until the last sentence. AWESOME.




2. "A Jury of Her Peers" by Susan Glaspell. In which men (who are busy doing and accomplishing things) fail to solve the crime because they don't pay attention to things like knitting needles and fruit preserves. Trust: nosy woman neighbors know the deets. Leave it to them, mmkay?


3. "Young Goodman Brown" by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I'm not a Hawthorne fan, but this story about literally and figuratively losing Faith in a devil ritual in the woods of Salem made me think and was generally pretty awesome.


4. "Hills Like White Elephants" by Ernest Hemingway. Epitome of Hemingway's "iceberg" style of storytelling. Spoiler alert: it's about an abortion. Pretty much ingenius.


5. "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson. Vies for my number one favorite short story spot just because it's SO GOOD and so unexpected. If you read ANY of these stories, READ THIS ONE!!!


That's it. Sorry if you don't like lit and reading. No, I'm not. That's your problem. Read "The Lottery." It might change your mind. :)

Everything popular is wrong.

I feel like this more often than not. Especially at work and school. Except that I love lame TV shows and "CGI shitfests." But at least I don't pretend the Tyra Banks Show is QUALITY TV. I know it's not. I just love it anyway. :)

Lazy.

No, I don't wear stuff like that to bed, either.
But I did stay in all day today. I kind of got dressed. Sort of. No makeup. Didn't get in my car.

It was highly boring.

I hate days like this except for when I'm sick. Today, the carpets were cleaned and my Mom had to get her flat tire fixed, so I stayed here while the guy did the carpets. What a pain in the ass, by the way. Having to move all your furniture so the carpets can be cleaned. NOT COOL.

Anyway.

Also, resolving debt and starting a diet during the same week? I don't recommend it.

I've filed 6 job applications. I've pretty much said on there that yes, I have loads of retail experience and I'm willing to work forever during the summer, but once school starts I'll probably screw them over. Either I'll get hired by someone or I won't. I hope I do, just because if I don't have to work I fear there will be many more jammy-clad do-nothing days in my future.

That isn't HEALTHY.

Luckily I'm going out with Bethany tomorrow. I pretty much can't wait.

I promise I'm not actually feeling as mopey as this post sounds.

Also, I'm in love.



I'm setting up a Paypal account so that friends can donate money to my Buy Bixby Fund when they're feeling generous for Christmas and my birthday. Yes. I would like a cream-colored French Bulldog (female) who I will name Bixby and call "Bix," like the awesome dinosaur in Dinotopia.

WHATEVER, DINOTOPIA WAS AN AWESOME BOOK AND SO WHAT IF BIX CAN WRITE AND USE A TELESCOPE.

Oh!
I've just remembered why I started writing in the first place!
BOOK REVIEW

An excellent and most perceptive friend of mine gave me this book for Christmas. I started to read it and then school took over my life and I was too busy reading nonsense like Caleb Williams to finish. I picked it up (and finished!) it yesterday.

If you are intrigued by the character of Irene Adler ("A Scandal in Bohemia" and cause of the famous quote/opening line, "To Sherlock Holmes, she is always the Woman."), then this Holmes pastiche would be RIGHT up your alley. I loved Douglas's descriptions and characterisation Irene. She felt really spot-on, like if Doyle (Doily) had taken more time and interest in, y'know, WOMEN, then he probably would've written her this way. Douglas's Adler is vibrant, flamboyant, fearless and painfully clever. She plays upon the opera singer aspect (which is ACD's fault), and Irene's bohemian lifestyle. She just seems like a really cool chick.

Not so cool is Good Night, Mr. Holmes's narrator, Penelope Huxleigh, who I feel is a contrived female version of Watson. She even has a moustache. I'm so kidding. But she is very much the Watson to Irene's Holmes, and I guess I just found it bothersome. Thankfully, she's original enough that I didn't get a Mary-Sue feeling from her (THANK GOD), but she was a terribly uninteresting narrator, which is problematic since you're seeing the story unfold from HER perspective.

Also. If you want more Holmes and Watson, don't bother. I think they're in an impressive four or five chapters total (out of 35 + epilogue).

What's neat about this story is it's a grand and elaborate set up for the "Scandal in Bohemia" case. That one is one of my favorites (mostly, admittedly, because of The Woman), so it was really neat the way Douglas creates a whole story line (or two or three or five) to reach that penultimate moment when Adler, in disguise and following Holmes, yells goodnight to him. That was quite clever.

OH ALSO. She mentions Bram Stoker and Oscar Wilde is kind of a major character.<3333
The way she describes him is PERFECT. Observe!
"You pour [tea] with the rhythm of a villanelle," said a deep, musical voice at my elbow. My elbow! I looked down to find a large young man half-reclining on the carpet, gazing up at me like a spaniel through wings of long brown hair.
"I beg your pardon?" said I.
"And well you should for wasting the poetry of your pouring on this callow mob. You should pour only for a chosen, appreciative few."
"Indeed." As a parson's daughter I had found that word an adequate response to almost any situation.
"Quite right to keep your own counsel, prim nymph of the afternoon libation, as utterly, utterly cool as a marble chessboard, mute as a concealed pain."
"Would you like a cup of tea, is that it?"
Long pale hands fanned into ten eloquently separate fingers--an overblown flower losing its petals. Everything about my admirer drooped--his shoulder-length hair, his soft velvet tie, the green carnation in his lapel and most of all, his expression.
"I seek ambrosia," he whispered.
"I a very sorry. I'm not serving any of that. Perhaps the punch table--"
"Cruel spite of ancient rites. I withdraw, but my admiration remains."
With that, the odd young an rose--which took some time as he, like Redbeard, towered over six feet when standing--and ebbed into the murmuring clusters.

DROOPY! And mad props for the green carnation reference.

So, overall. Interesting? Yes. Do you need to be a Holmes fanatic to get it? Decidedly not. A story about Sherlock Holmes? Not in the least.

Overall, I'd give it like, 4 stars. Five perhaps, except that I was deluded into thinking it was a Sherlock Holmes story. It's not. Apart from that though, it's still a really quick-paced and interesting read.

Yay! Now I feel like I accomplished something! Jammies and all! Thank you, blogging, for giving me a false sense of purpose.

"Everything popular is wrong."

This is how I feel about Virginia Woolf and modernism in general. I feel like literature died with WWI. I hate it.


So DORK MOMENT. Currently, I am DYING to get back to the library, not for my research paper, oh no. I want to go back to the Alice in Wonderland/Sherlock Holmes section, check out books relevant to my interests and take my own sweet time reading them this summer. I will not miss being a student, I think, when it comes to papers and homework. I will however miss having access to such a full library.

Speaking of Sherlock Holmes, I also hate how Arthur Conan Doyle hates Sherlock Holmes and tried to kill him like, 6 billion times, failed, gave a big hissy fit and continued writing, even though you can tell he despises doing so. He snarks his audience constantly throughout the last two Sherlock Holmes books. I feel insulted and want to snark him back.
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Yeah, regrettably, that's the best I can come up with at the moment. But seriously, how can you hate Sherlock Holmes?!? Or WATSON. COME ON, ACD. COME ON.

I am ridiculously tired, even though I've finally started sleeping again. Must be catching up. That and finals. I can blame anything on finals.

Only a week and a half, only a week and a half, only a week and a half...

No woman should ever be quite accurate about her age. It looks so calculating.

I have no idea, so here's Gangsta Barney singing 50 Cent.


I turned 21 on Wednesday.


Mom decorated everything in PINK and it looked so pretty (and yes, that's a pile of fashion mags. My family knows me well. *_*)

The day started off on an awesome note when my bestie took me to breakfast (complete with a Spiderman balloon. You KNOW you're jealous.).



The weather outside was DIVINE and since we weren't able to make our yearly picnic-on-the-beach this year, my Mom and I decided to take the Winter Park boat tour. I went, I think, when I was like, six, so needless to say I remembered nothing about it. I can't even remember what happened two weeks ago, much less YEARS ago.






A couple pieces of real estate I wouldn't mind owning...







My grandma sent me the most gorgeous pink and white roses...totally made my day. I don't get flowers all that often, but NOTHING brightens a room (or my mood!) quite as much as fresh flowers.





Capped the day off with dinner at Red Lobster (mmm, scallops). I also, instead of traditional birthday cake, opted for chocolate-covered strawberries and Petit Fours. My mom did get a teensy weensy regular cake though, because my grandparents stopped by and when it's someone's birthday, apparently guests expect HARDCORE BIRTHDAY CAKE.





Overall, it was an awesome, beautiful day. I've been really leery of 21 for a LONG time, because there are certain expectations that people (read: society) expect you to uphold on your 21st. For reasons completely of my own (and non-religious, in case you were wondering), I don't drink at all, and so I was all like, "Crap," about being 21 and having to scooch around that issue. Alas, it flew without a hitch and was one of the most decadent, beautiful days I've had in a really, really long time. Thank you to everyone who made it so! You all mean the world to me, and I really appreciate you and everything you say and do.

"Genius is born--not paid."

I'd just like you to know, bloggity blogworld, that Oscar Wilde is the man. And he speaks the truth. Even though he was imprisoned and sentenced to hard labor for being gay.



You've gotta love students. Not your elementary and high school students. Your deep-thinking, tormented, over-thoughtful, gluttons-for-torture college students. You have to love the way they over-analyze even the most mundane points of a story. Granted, this may just be something that is singular to certain areas of study (anything artsy...film, literature, PHILOSOPHY...God, I hate the philosophy majors. I want to do violent things to them when they question every statement I make. "And what do you mean by 'fan?' As in, fanatic or fanaticism?" Good God, man, aren't they same??). Being (for all intents and purposes) a literature major, it's my job to read in between the lines and find symbolism and meaning where there probably isn't any. Do I think that the aliens in "Alien" were simultaneously symbolic of drag queens and vaginas? No, not really. Do I buy that H.G. Well's portrayal of aliens is a distorted reflection on humanity? Yeah, I can buy that, because the point can be well-proved. But you have to love the kids who question, very deeply mind you, the motivation of what drives a minor character to enter a carriage.

I wish I had made that last sentence up. I quote it to you verbatim. "What is her motivation to enter the carriage?" Gee, I don't know, TRYING TO GET SOMEPLACE??? She wasn't a major character AT ALL so it likely doesn't matter. Keep your hand down, your mouth shut, and your mind someplace useful. Throwing around words like "hubris," "heteroblastic" and "alterity" does not automatically make you smart. Nor does bringing the all-present "consumerist driven society" into every discussion. Buying stuff is bad. And we're all whores for doing it. We get it. Thank you for your riveting input.

However, I do have to say that I find it highly interesting that women were discouraged from an education in the Victorian era because it was thought that the blood would be sent to the brain to help them start thinking and working things out for themselves. Therefore blood would NOT be present in...other places. So people back then literally thought that either women's baby-makers would get all dusty and useless with an education, or that they'd go about willy-nilly in Tiger Woods-esque sexcapades.

Luckily for women and Oscar Wilde, we've come a long way since then.

But it has absolutely nothing to do with you "deep" thinking vocabulary-spewing students. So take your alterity and go home.