In a bid to see what all the fuss is about the Fifty Shades trilogy (by E.L. James) without spending any money, I have read a variety of reviews, excerpts, quotes and interviews.
What I can conclude is that I made the right decision in not flushing my money down the toilet by buying this horrible excuse for 'erotica'; also known as literary chick-porn. As I have not read the books in their entirety - which I am going to avoid lest it force me to claw my eyes out and engage in book burning - I will refer you to the best review of all time. Seriously. Read it, and the two follow-ups, and then come back here.
Read it? Good. Then you're up to speed and I don't have to rehash all its literary deficiencies, as I doubt I could do it any funnier than Katrina Lumsden did.
She is obviously one of the 'con' side, which broadly consists of people who find it obscene and unfit for any audience, people (women) who find it misogynist and/or a misrepresentation of BDSM culture, and people who merely find it a badly written, sexed-up Harlequin novel with vapid characters and non-existent plot.
Of course, if your main aim is good old pr0n, then who cares about misogyny, fake BDSM and a story that's just as cliché as the pizza man with extra pepperoni. Case closed, enjoy the thrill of the 'mommy porn' and giggle about it with your friends at the knitting club.
But, that's not why the 'pro' side is professing to love these books. No, they wax on poetically about the liberation of female sexuality, the blossoming of the innocent heroine, and the ultimate fantasy that true love can overcome sexual pervertedness caused by childhood trauma. Not to mention that to them, this is a pioneering work in the field of women's fiction, and is breaking age old taboos.
Excuse me while I go vomit.
Erotica has been around for a long time, even when it was not labelled as such. Anyone ever read the Earth's Children series by Jean M. Auel, just to name one? Sexual awakening right there, and lots of 'primitive' sex to follow, though I admit that these novels were not branded erotica. Then let me refer you - though I haven't read these, tbh - to the Sleeping Beauty trilogy by Anne Rice: written in the '80s, and apparently widely read in the BDSM community.
So how is Fifty Shades pioneering or liberating? If women want to, they need only Google and there it is, ready for Amazon order. Also, the 'true love overcomes all'-fantasy is as old as time. Though this particular brand of vapid heroine and remote, dangerous (but rich and handsome) bad boy is much more reminiscent of another literary endeavour of questionable quality: the Twilight series.
Surprise, surprise: in interviews E.L. James has said that her story originated as Twilight fanfiction. Kill me now. I have nothing against fanfiction, being that for me it is an exercise everyone engages in whenever they watch a film or read a book - whether they write it down or not. Whenever you finish a work of fiction you always wonder what happens next, or what you wish had happened differently, or what might have happened had a certain character not died (Sirius in HP, anyone?). The only difference with fanfiction writers is that they take it one step further and publish these derivative stories on the internet, sometimes with surprisingly well-written and engaging stories as a result.
But the fact remains that these works are strongly derivative, and are never supposed to be turned into an 'original' work of fiction. Additionally, I personally think that the fact that E.L. James engaged in writing Twilight fanfiction at all does not evoke the image of a woman who knows quality fiction of the kind her heroine ironically enjoys, let alone one who is more emotionally mature than a 13-year-old. It does however lend strength to the characterization of Fifty Shades as the Twilight for 35+.
But maybe that's it: the women who read this tripe and call it the "best book they've read all year" have the emotional maturity of a pre-teen princess, and only call it that because it is the only book they've read all year - or, excuse me Audible, listened to all year. To be honest, I'm guessing the lack of linguistic virtuosity should be even more apparent when you're listening to it and can't skip, but that's just me. And I've tried, but I can't find any reason for almost 20 million sold copies other than awesome marketing and repressed, bored mommies whose last foray into literature was the required kind in high school or college.
Simply put: if you enjoy Fifty Shade of Grey/Darker/Freed for anything other than its (repetitive) raunchy sex scenes, then you are not qualified to judge the literary merits of anything ever again. Ever.
To illustrate I present the "inner goddess", a concept of an inner consciousness that Ana - our 'heroine' - uses frequently to express some form of emotion. The term is used throughout the trilogy no less than 58, 58 and 33 times, respectively (thank you Katrina Lumsden for counting so I don't have to), and results in brilliant sentences such as:
"My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves."
"My inner goddess sits in the lotus position looking serene except for the sly, self-congratulatory smile on her face."
"My inner goddess jumps up and down with cheer-leading pom-poms shouting yes at me."
I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
All the inner goddess does for me, is remind me of the Gillette Venus slogan: "Reveal the Goddess in You". I also find it the most ridiculously narcissistic, "girl power!"-esque description of some fictitious representation of yourself, illustrating your hidden emotions with cartoony actions.
And most importantly: NORMAL PEOPLE DO NOT TALK LIKE THIS! If I had read the book, the main character would have lost all my sympathy the moment this preposterous contraption reared its head. I almost feel personally offended that this contrived Bella Swan knock-off non-character wears Converse sneakers. I friggin' love Converse! It's bad enough that I have to share them with an army of hipsters, but not this vapid wench.
But back to the "inner goddess" (my inner goddess is seething and stamping her little foot) - see how absurd it is when regular people do it?!
What astounds me the most about this phrase, is how it is seemingly universally accepted and goes unquestioned by almost every reviewer I can dig up on the internet. Even the reviewer for the Guardian newspaper (thankfully sensible) only mentions the inner goddess as an example of bad writing. Which it is, of course, but why does no one ask where this monstrosity comes from? Apparently it's not an exclusive idea, because I found this. An honest to god guide to "Finding your inner goddess", available on Amazon. It almost makes me feel ashamed to be a woman.
I hope that the hype about this trilogy will die down soon, and that E.L. James proves to be a one hit wonder and will stick to fanfiction from now on. Though even if you're into fanfics, you don't have to resign yourself to her either; there are many fanfic writers who are much better - though I'm iffy about the Twilight section.
Lastly, a bit of food for thought: I'm guessing half the copies of Fifty Shades that are sold serve to fuel a night of hilarity reading it with friends. Once you get over the absolute stupidity, I suspect it can be extraordinarily funny. I don't think E.L. James meant it that way, though, but who cares.
Thursday, 19 July 2012
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Ode to Frisbee shorts
Oh Frisbee shorts,
Thou most comfortable of garments,
Made ecologically from recycled plastic, so soft and stretchy.
One might compare thee to basketball shorts, in shape and function,
But 'lo! thy lack of cheap shininess and tacky association with gangsta
are become irrevocably clear at the merest glance upon thy face.
Class exudes from thee, not to be had at any lowly store,
but the virtual establishments of Lookfly and 5Ultimate.
Thy beauty comes in many a shade, though thy comfort ever impossible to deny;
Whether it be to play Ultimate, jog or engage in other strenuous activity,
Or be it to study, to face the searing summer heat or only to lazy about watching telly.
A breeze doth flutter thy fabric softly thus, a cooling caress,
Then settle in place with nary a wrinkle.
No matter the form that seeks to be clothed in thy folds,
The results be never unsightly, and the envy of less fortunate ones
Who lack the wit to recognise baggy shorts' true worth.
Age doth not touch thee, unblemished be thy skin
After a thousand lay out D's.
Thy resilience is proved in washing, no drying needed.
Nor should it be attempted, lest thy praised beauty shrivel and die
Under the unforgiving heat of the crude dryer.
I wear thee now, in silent worship,
As I record the sentiments which doth flow from my heart.
Pray, let me not be led astray by the age-old wiles of pyjama pants
Who are much less fit for public appearance,
And contribute far less to a perceived active and sporty lifestyle.
Judge me not as I acquire more pairs of thee,
As love will be showered on all of thee regardless of colour preference.
I ask only that thy will let me bask in thy heavenly comfort forever more,
Even after I finish University life and give up freedom of wardrobe,
To return to thee always when the workday is done, and reminisce.
-S.H.
Just a funny bit about stretchy shorts that I absolutely love, and have designated as my default summer clothing on days when 'nuthin' special' will do. And a bit of light humour to compensate for last time's scary rant.
And you know what else? I only just realised my initials are the same as Sherlock Holmes!
Thou most comfortable of garments,
Made ecologically from recycled plastic, so soft and stretchy.
One might compare thee to basketball shorts, in shape and function,
But 'lo! thy lack of cheap shininess and tacky association with gangsta
are become irrevocably clear at the merest glance upon thy face.
Class exudes from thee, not to be had at any lowly store,
but the virtual establishments of Lookfly and 5Ultimate.
Thy beauty comes in many a shade, though thy comfort ever impossible to deny;
Whether it be to play Ultimate, jog or engage in other strenuous activity,
Or be it to study, to face the searing summer heat or only to lazy about watching telly.
A breeze doth flutter thy fabric softly thus, a cooling caress,
Then settle in place with nary a wrinkle.
No matter the form that seeks to be clothed in thy folds,
The results be never unsightly, and the envy of less fortunate ones
Who lack the wit to recognise baggy shorts' true worth.
Age doth not touch thee, unblemished be thy skin
After a thousand lay out D's.
Thy resilience is proved in washing, no drying needed.
Nor should it be attempted, lest thy praised beauty shrivel and die
Under the unforgiving heat of the crude dryer.
I wear thee now, in silent worship,
As I record the sentiments which doth flow from my heart.
Pray, let me not be led astray by the age-old wiles of pyjama pants
Who are much less fit for public appearance,
And contribute far less to a perceived active and sporty lifestyle.
Judge me not as I acquire more pairs of thee,
As love will be showered on all of thee regardless of colour preference.
I ask only that thy will let me bask in thy heavenly comfort forever more,
Even after I finish University life and give up freedom of wardrobe,
To return to thee always when the workday is done, and reminisce.
-S.H.
Just a funny bit about stretchy shorts that I absolutely love, and have designated as my default summer clothing on days when 'nuthin' special' will do. And a bit of light humour to compensate for last time's scary rant.
And you know what else? I only just realised my initials are the same as Sherlock Holmes!
Thursday, 12 July 2012
BL: blindingly lackluster
As you might have gathered already from the current content of this blog, one of my major interests is books. High-brow, not-so-high-brow, non-fiction; if something strikes my fancy I'll read it. As such you can't make me happier than by taking me to a library or bookshop, and letting me loose in there for a few hours reading back flaps, admiring cover art and fondling thick, sturdy hardcovers in a haze of new-book-smell. But there is one library, no matter how vast, exclusive and beautiful, that I will no longer set foot in. Not even for their original manuscript by Tolkien.
That place, ladies and gentlemen, is the British Library. Yes, the big one in London near King's Cross with the imposing security people. The presence of evil-eyed bag-checkers alone should have tipped me off that this Library (note the capital L) is a prime example of pompous, bureaucratic ineptitude.
I'm sure this sounds like blasphemy, but hear me out. For my dissertation this year - I think you're already as sick of hearing about it as I am thinking about it - I need two Japanese daily newspapers spanning the period of 12 March 2011 to 25 March 2011. I won't bore you with the specifics of why and what for, but it requires copying of some sort of these two weeks of coverage.
So, naïve thing that I am, I searched in the British Library's online catalogue, which is the first stop for researchers. 'Lo and behold: the newspapers, which a person on the phone confirmed to me. Then, just to be sure, I checked copying possibilities, one of these being remote copying, which I tried to arrange, but was then informed that as the item was available in the collection, I had to come to the Library and do it myself.
So, all boxes checked, I followed standard procedure: pre-register for reader's pass; request items from remote storage to reading room (can imagine no one needs Japanese newspapers all that often) taking into account the time it takes for them to arrive from friggin' Yorkshire; get ID-card and evidence of address; book hostel and bus journey. Sorted, I thought.
WRONG.
The trip started well enough, in the sense that I found my way to the library just fine, and finished registering for my reader's pass no problem whatsoever. The trouble started when I got to the African&Asian reading room, and the lady behind the counter tells me that the items I requested are not there. This is strange, as they should only take about 48 hours to arrive, and I requested them 4 days ago. She digs a bit more, and finds a ticket saying that they don't have any files for March 2011. Bit strange.
But she doesn't much care, and it must have been only because I looked quite distressed that they called a Japan expert (the awesome Mr Hamish) from the office in the back. He is just as baffled as I am, and calls directly to storage in Yorkshire. Turns out they can't find it. Or better yet, the searching took too long so they just said they don't have it. Mr Hamish then sent another request on my behalf, which would take another 3 days.
To make a long, tedious story short, I spent 3 days sightseeing in London because I had nothing else to do but wait after I fruitlessly visited the library in the morning - where each time the same lady behind the desk had no idea who I was and I had to explain it all over again.
So, on Thursday I finally get the newspaper Mr Hamish called in for me, but the other one has apparently also been lost in the depths of the Boston Spa storage facility. Seeing as I can't stay in London indefinitely, I decide to cut my losses and settle for the one newspaper, and proceed to copy it.
Where the lady behind the counter tells me I can't take photos, I can't copy it myself on the machines because of the sizing and some more rubbish I don't entirely get, and they can't do it for me either because they're not authorised and would take too long.
She says I'll have to put in an online order for remote copying, which will take a month.
I'm silently boiling, because that's exactly the opposite of what I was told before I came, and no one told me it was going to take a month and cost me at least £80 for 3 CD-ROM discs with scanned pages. But what can you do? So I fill out the online form, and spend another day in London. Yay.
You'd think it was over after that, but no: last week I got an email saying that I need official permission from the publisher of the work for the copying to be possible, in a letter to be posted within 10 days. Try and get permission from Asahi Shimbun Japan in official writing, within a week.
Exactly.
So, I went to my very last option: the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin (incidentally who I had to call in my first blogpost). I was about ready to cry and beg, but they answered my email (phone wasn't picked up - got worked up about nothing) quickly, and succinctly.
Turns out I can make a personal appointment with them, they have the reduced size edition for both papers (confirmed by a real live person, twice) and I get to take photographs as long as I sign a piece of paper saying it's not for commercial use.
Done.
That's how easy it is. German efficiency at its finest, and a real willingness to understand my position and difficulty.
Which enrages me all the more when I think about the bloody British Library.
Where do they get off having such an air of superiority, as if they're the be-all end-all of libraries, when their storage facilities are apparently organised quite badly, the automated cranes are too weak to lift the big newspaper crates (swear to god that's what they said), the online catalogue is obviously inaccurate, and the amateurish "we can't find it" is easily translated into "we don't have it".
And not a single one of them apologetic about it except for Mr Hamish who is solely exempt from all these accusations.
I know my dissertation won't be a life changing revelation, and that they probably have visitors who are far more important than I am, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't deliver on the service that they promise. If you want to stick your nose in the air and act posh, fine, but then you bloody well make sure you've got the action to back it up.
They profile themselves as a reliable institution and research facility, and demand all sorts of security measures from their readers (it's like passing airport security, only worse), and then they display such astounding incompetence. It boggles the mind.
So for my part, I'm sick of the British Library, and will finally end my quest for research material in a week's time at the Staatsbibliothek Berlin. Who, by the way, were quite surprised when they heard that the British Library didn't have these publications.
So I've got a short summer trip to Berlin to look forward to, and the snobs at the BL can choke on their original manuscripts for all I care.
That place, ladies and gentlemen, is the British Library. Yes, the big one in London near King's Cross with the imposing security people. The presence of evil-eyed bag-checkers alone should have tipped me off that this Library (note the capital L) is a prime example of pompous, bureaucratic ineptitude.
I'm sure this sounds like blasphemy, but hear me out. For my dissertation this year - I think you're already as sick of hearing about it as I am thinking about it - I need two Japanese daily newspapers spanning the period of 12 March 2011 to 25 March 2011. I won't bore you with the specifics of why and what for, but it requires copying of some sort of these two weeks of coverage.
So, naïve thing that I am, I searched in the British Library's online catalogue, which is the first stop for researchers. 'Lo and behold: the newspapers, which a person on the phone confirmed to me. Then, just to be sure, I checked copying possibilities, one of these being remote copying, which I tried to arrange, but was then informed that as the item was available in the collection, I had to come to the Library and do it myself.
So, all boxes checked, I followed standard procedure: pre-register for reader's pass; request items from remote storage to reading room (can imagine no one needs Japanese newspapers all that often) taking into account the time it takes for them to arrive from friggin' Yorkshire; get ID-card and evidence of address; book hostel and bus journey. Sorted, I thought.
WRONG.
The trip started well enough, in the sense that I found my way to the library just fine, and finished registering for my reader's pass no problem whatsoever. The trouble started when I got to the African&Asian reading room, and the lady behind the counter tells me that the items I requested are not there. This is strange, as they should only take about 48 hours to arrive, and I requested them 4 days ago. She digs a bit more, and finds a ticket saying that they don't have any files for March 2011. Bit strange.
But she doesn't much care, and it must have been only because I looked quite distressed that they called a Japan expert (the awesome Mr Hamish) from the office in the back. He is just as baffled as I am, and calls directly to storage in Yorkshire. Turns out they can't find it. Or better yet, the searching took too long so they just said they don't have it. Mr Hamish then sent another request on my behalf, which would take another 3 days.
To make a long, tedious story short, I spent 3 days sightseeing in London because I had nothing else to do but wait after I fruitlessly visited the library in the morning - where each time the same lady behind the desk had no idea who I was and I had to explain it all over again.
So, on Thursday I finally get the newspaper Mr Hamish called in for me, but the other one has apparently also been lost in the depths of the Boston Spa storage facility. Seeing as I can't stay in London indefinitely, I decide to cut my losses and settle for the one newspaper, and proceed to copy it.
Where the lady behind the counter tells me I can't take photos, I can't copy it myself on the machines because of the sizing and some more rubbish I don't entirely get, and they can't do it for me either because they're not authorised and would take too long.
She says I'll have to put in an online order for remote copying, which will take a month.
I'm silently boiling, because that's exactly the opposite of what I was told before I came, and no one told me it was going to take a month and cost me at least £80 for 3 CD-ROM discs with scanned pages. But what can you do? So I fill out the online form, and spend another day in London. Yay.
You'd think it was over after that, but no: last week I got an email saying that I need official permission from the publisher of the work for the copying to be possible, in a letter to be posted within 10 days. Try and get permission from Asahi Shimbun Japan in official writing, within a week.
Exactly.
So, I went to my very last option: the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin (incidentally who I had to call in my first blogpost). I was about ready to cry and beg, but they answered my email (phone wasn't picked up - got worked up about nothing) quickly, and succinctly.
Turns out I can make a personal appointment with them, they have the reduced size edition for both papers (confirmed by a real live person, twice) and I get to take photographs as long as I sign a piece of paper saying it's not for commercial use.
Done.
That's how easy it is. German efficiency at its finest, and a real willingness to understand my position and difficulty.
Which enrages me all the more when I think about the bloody British Library.
Where do they get off having such an air of superiority, as if they're the be-all end-all of libraries, when their storage facilities are apparently organised quite badly, the automated cranes are too weak to lift the big newspaper crates (swear to god that's what they said), the online catalogue is obviously inaccurate, and the amateurish "we can't find it" is easily translated into "we don't have it".
And not a single one of them apologetic about it except for Mr Hamish who is solely exempt from all these accusations.
I know my dissertation won't be a life changing revelation, and that they probably have visitors who are far more important than I am, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't deliver on the service that they promise. If you want to stick your nose in the air and act posh, fine, but then you bloody well make sure you've got the action to back it up.
They profile themselves as a reliable institution and research facility, and demand all sorts of security measures from their readers (it's like passing airport security, only worse), and then they display such astounding incompetence. It boggles the mind.
So for my part, I'm sick of the British Library, and will finally end my quest for research material in a week's time at the Staatsbibliothek Berlin. Who, by the way, were quite surprised when they heard that the British Library didn't have these publications.
So I've got a short summer trip to Berlin to look forward to, and the snobs at the BL can choke on their original manuscripts for all I care.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
Sexy kilts: the danger of a successful formula
Yesterday, in a bout of dissertation escapism, I finished the novel An Echo in the Bone, also known as Outlander 7, by Diana Gabaldon.
And yes, I am aware that this outs me as a fan of swashbuckling time travel adventure romance in Scotland. But be honest: what's not to like about 18th century buff, kilted Highlanders suffused with clan honour and thick Scottish accents? Especially when it's accompanied by some very decent writing.
Sadly, that is where Outlander 7 shoots a bit short of the mark.
While I did enjoy the story in this latest instalment, I think this was mostly due to the fact that I already loved the characters, and was invested in their future. Let me give you the base facts, just so everyone knows what we're talking about:
In 1946, Claire Beauchamp is a former army nurse who takes a trip to Scotland (Inverness) with her husband. On a hike, she accidentally steps through a circle of standing stones, which suddenly transports her back to 1744 - just before the disastrous Jacobite Rising. There, she gets picked up by a roving band of men of Clan MacKenzie, who take her back to their castle because they fear she's an English spy. What follows is a winding tale of intrigue, war, medicine and romance in which Claire marries and falls in love (in that order) with Jamie Fraser and ultimately decides to abandon her first husband to stay in the past (not a spoiler, because you know that just by accepting there are 7 books). The rest of the massive story arc involves Jamie's family, witchcraft, smuggling, piracy, the American colonies and the American Revolutionary War.
Overall, brilliant stuff, and a very engaging read. Were it not that the use of some story elements and plot devices are becoming slightly repetitive. The language is beautiful as ever, and can create drama without the added melo- or sappy Hollywood clichés, but it is not enough to disguise the staleness of some of the personal descriptions and imagery. For example, we know by now that Claire has untameable, curly hair and that this is considered immodest and slightly scandalous by 18th century men. Both this, the description of Jamie's "bold, striking Viking features" and the fact of their undying love for each other do not have to be repeated at every turn.
Same goes for the plot device where Claire is inexplicably superbly attractive to every single man she meets (even though she's in her 50s in the latest book) which causes awkward situations and humorous jealousy from Jamie. Also, the occasions where Jamie is presumed dead and Claire gets entangled in rash action after she goes through a Bella Swan-like swoon at the news, are - while well-written - slightly overused.
This is a crying shame, because I love the story very much. But Outlander 7 did leave me with a feeling that it was too long (same as 6, really), and could have been told in less text. This is mainly because many of the small sub plots (like the presumed death and its fall-out, and the marriage entanglements of some tacksmen) were not necessary for the main plot and story arc, and seemed just to be there to fill the necessary passage of time until the next big event.
What also struck me as being wrong, is that l enjoyed reading what happened to the other characters more than reading what happened to Claire. An Echo in the Bone uses different kinds of perspective - moreso than previous books - with Claire's chapters being in first person and other people's passages in third person. I personally don't think it's a good sign if readers are sometimes itching to skip the main character in favour of other, less prominent characters, and hopefully Diana Gabaldon will have picked up on that when writing Outlander 8, which will hopefully be finished later this year.
To be fair, I did read all seven books one after the other since last Easter, so maybe these criticisms are more noticeable to me than to people who have to wait 2 to 3 years after every volume. I imagine the rediscovery of beloved characters after such a long wait eclipses the slight repetitiveness, and in that case the longer the book, the better.
So, lastly, I have to say that I still do heartily recommend the series - just make sure you start at the beginning - while I myself am no longer in danger of erupting in adoring fangirlish screams. Though I expect these might return with the release of the next part of the series, you never know. Or better yet, the prequel!
I just hope Diana Gabaldon finally found a reliable French-speaker, so that the teeth grindingly obvious linguistic mistakes (which are corrected in subsequent books) will no longer happen: really, anyone could have told you that 'Germaine' is not a traditional boys' name.
And yes, I am aware that this outs me as a fan of swashbuckling time travel adventure romance in Scotland. But be honest: what's not to like about 18th century buff, kilted Highlanders suffused with clan honour and thick Scottish accents? Especially when it's accompanied by some very decent writing.
Sadly, that is where Outlander 7 shoots a bit short of the mark.
While I did enjoy the story in this latest instalment, I think this was mostly due to the fact that I already loved the characters, and was invested in their future. Let me give you the base facts, just so everyone knows what we're talking about:
In 1946, Claire Beauchamp is a former army nurse who takes a trip to Scotland (Inverness) with her husband. On a hike, she accidentally steps through a circle of standing stones, which suddenly transports her back to 1744 - just before the disastrous Jacobite Rising. There, she gets picked up by a roving band of men of Clan MacKenzie, who take her back to their castle because they fear she's an English spy. What follows is a winding tale of intrigue, war, medicine and romance in which Claire marries and falls in love (in that order) with Jamie Fraser and ultimately decides to abandon her first husband to stay in the past (not a spoiler, because you know that just by accepting there are 7 books). The rest of the massive story arc involves Jamie's family, witchcraft, smuggling, piracy, the American colonies and the American Revolutionary War.
Overall, brilliant stuff, and a very engaging read. Were it not that the use of some story elements and plot devices are becoming slightly repetitive. The language is beautiful as ever, and can create drama without the added melo- or sappy Hollywood clichés, but it is not enough to disguise the staleness of some of the personal descriptions and imagery. For example, we know by now that Claire has untameable, curly hair and that this is considered immodest and slightly scandalous by 18th century men. Both this, the description of Jamie's "bold, striking Viking features" and the fact of their undying love for each other do not have to be repeated at every turn.
Same goes for the plot device where Claire is inexplicably superbly attractive to every single man she meets (even though she's in her 50s in the latest book) which causes awkward situations and humorous jealousy from Jamie. Also, the occasions where Jamie is presumed dead and Claire gets entangled in rash action after she goes through a Bella Swan-like swoon at the news, are - while well-written - slightly overused.
This is a crying shame, because I love the story very much. But Outlander 7 did leave me with a feeling that it was too long (same as 6, really), and could have been told in less text. This is mainly because many of the small sub plots (like the presumed death and its fall-out, and the marriage entanglements of some tacksmen) were not necessary for the main plot and story arc, and seemed just to be there to fill the necessary passage of time until the next big event.
What also struck me as being wrong, is that l enjoyed reading what happened to the other characters more than reading what happened to Claire. An Echo in the Bone uses different kinds of perspective - moreso than previous books - with Claire's chapters being in first person and other people's passages in third person. I personally don't think it's a good sign if readers are sometimes itching to skip the main character in favour of other, less prominent characters, and hopefully Diana Gabaldon will have picked up on that when writing Outlander 8, which will hopefully be finished later this year.
To be fair, I did read all seven books one after the other since last Easter, so maybe these criticisms are more noticeable to me than to people who have to wait 2 to 3 years after every volume. I imagine the rediscovery of beloved characters after such a long wait eclipses the slight repetitiveness, and in that case the longer the book, the better.
So, lastly, I have to say that I still do heartily recommend the series - just make sure you start at the beginning - while I myself am no longer in danger of erupting in adoring fangirlish screams. Though I expect these might return with the release of the next part of the series, you never know. Or better yet, the prequel!
I just hope Diana Gabaldon finally found a reliable French-speaker, so that the teeth grindingly obvious linguistic mistakes (which are corrected in subsequent books) will no longer happen: really, anyone could have told you that 'Germaine' is not a traditional boys' name.
Monday, 9 July 2012
Phone trouble
I love texting.
No, seriously! Okay, I might not do it all that often, but texting (and email, for that matter) has liberated me from the horror that is telephone conversations.
For as long as I can remember I have had an aversion to picking up the phone and calling somebody up. Especially if that someone is a company, a public institution, or even just a dentist. About the only person I can call without becoming a quivering, sweaty (non-sexy) mess with heart palpitations is my mother. Even with friends or boyfriends I find calling to be uncomfortable, although for different reasons; you only call companies and dentists for a specific reason; something you need to ask or arrange or make an appointment about. When there's a random call with a friend either there's no reason - which causes me to flounder for a suitable topic for small-talk - or there is a reason (like essay questions) but you have to jump through interminable social hoops before you can get to the point.
If I want to have a meaningful conversation with a friend or just want to catch up, I make time to see them in person. And if it's not that important or the friend in question is not exactly around the corner, I write an email. On the friend side of things, the reason I hate phone conversations is the 'spontaneity' of it. It puts me on the spot when I'm entirely busy with something else, and it's hard to switch gears like that; I become a stuttering mess and say yes to things I later figure out I should not be saying yes to. And for my efforts I only manage to alienate the other side, since I (so I've been told) sound very unpleasantly surprised and impatient when receiving an unannounced phone call. Not very conducive to friendships, let me tell you. Or love lives, for that matter.
On the other end of the spectrum, as mentioned, are the so-called 'official' phone calls. The ones you just can't get out of, on pain of suffering a tooth ache, paying excessively high electricity bills and not getting the package whose delivery you missed. It simply has to be done. And it is excruciating. Because the people you get on the phone invariably do not enunciate clearly, which means I can hardly ever understand them and sound like a complete moron answering a question far too late because I've only just figured out what they said. And that is when they actually understand what I'm on about. You'd start hyperventilating for less. No wonder that I usually try to avoid this by using email, or (as a last resort) going to see them in person. You'd think the last one would be even worse, but somehow being able to see someone's face when talking to them helps a lot. Though I fear that does not make me seem any less of an idiot.
The reason I felt the need to talk about this little handicap is the fact that I'm currently in the situation where I need to phone a library. In German. About the possibilities of copying Japanese newspapers. Not really an average request, and my German is elementary at best. I would love to send an email, but that would take too long, I wouldn't be sure they actually understand what I need, and I fear the back-and-forth of emails would take far too much time; I'm on a rather tight deadline here. So I've been delaying and delaying (along the lines of: "oh, it's the weekend! Can't call now!" and "Oh, it'll be lunch time! Can't call now!" and "But I need a shower first! Can't call now!" and the kicker "Oh, it's too near closing time and they'll be wanting to go home and not pay attention to me! Can't call now!"), and the window of opportunity is shrinking as I type.
Tomorrow has to be the day. I can't afford any more delays, or my dissertation will be up shit creek without a paddle.
So, tomorrow morning it is, no more excuses.
By the way, did I tell you that another one of my handicaps is a tendency to procrastination?
No, seriously! Okay, I might not do it all that often, but texting (and email, for that matter) has liberated me from the horror that is telephone conversations.
For as long as I can remember I have had an aversion to picking up the phone and calling somebody up. Especially if that someone is a company, a public institution, or even just a dentist. About the only person I can call without becoming a quivering, sweaty (non-sexy) mess with heart palpitations is my mother. Even with friends or boyfriends I find calling to be uncomfortable, although for different reasons; you only call companies and dentists for a specific reason; something you need to ask or arrange or make an appointment about. When there's a random call with a friend either there's no reason - which causes me to flounder for a suitable topic for small-talk - or there is a reason (like essay questions) but you have to jump through interminable social hoops before you can get to the point.
If I want to have a meaningful conversation with a friend or just want to catch up, I make time to see them in person. And if it's not that important or the friend in question is not exactly around the corner, I write an email. On the friend side of things, the reason I hate phone conversations is the 'spontaneity' of it. It puts me on the spot when I'm entirely busy with something else, and it's hard to switch gears like that; I become a stuttering mess and say yes to things I later figure out I should not be saying yes to. And for my efforts I only manage to alienate the other side, since I (so I've been told) sound very unpleasantly surprised and impatient when receiving an unannounced phone call. Not very conducive to friendships, let me tell you. Or love lives, for that matter.
On the other end of the spectrum, as mentioned, are the so-called 'official' phone calls. The ones you just can't get out of, on pain of suffering a tooth ache, paying excessively high electricity bills and not getting the package whose delivery you missed. It simply has to be done. And it is excruciating. Because the people you get on the phone invariably do not enunciate clearly, which means I can hardly ever understand them and sound like a complete moron answering a question far too late because I've only just figured out what they said. And that is when they actually understand what I'm on about. You'd start hyperventilating for less. No wonder that I usually try to avoid this by using email, or (as a last resort) going to see them in person. You'd think the last one would be even worse, but somehow being able to see someone's face when talking to them helps a lot. Though I fear that does not make me seem any less of an idiot.
The reason I felt the need to talk about this little handicap is the fact that I'm currently in the situation where I need to phone a library. In German. About the possibilities of copying Japanese newspapers. Not really an average request, and my German is elementary at best. I would love to send an email, but that would take too long, I wouldn't be sure they actually understand what I need, and I fear the back-and-forth of emails would take far too much time; I'm on a rather tight deadline here. So I've been delaying and delaying (along the lines of: "oh, it's the weekend! Can't call now!" and "Oh, it'll be lunch time! Can't call now!" and "But I need a shower first! Can't call now!" and the kicker "Oh, it's too near closing time and they'll be wanting to go home and not pay attention to me! Can't call now!"), and the window of opportunity is shrinking as I type.
Tomorrow has to be the day. I can't afford any more delays, or my dissertation will be up shit creek without a paddle.
So, tomorrow morning it is, no more excuses.
By the way, did I tell you that another one of my handicaps is a tendency to procrastination?
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