It's outrageously expensive to buy English-language books in France, so it's a good thing indeed that I brought so many with me. However, in my eighth month here, I have read all the ones I wanted to, failed to finish ones that made me want to vomit (notably:
Eat, Pray, Love--give me a fucking break!), misplaced others at random French girls' homes (am I destined to never know the whole story of Holden Caulfied?), and lacked the gumption to persevere through others I feel like I should read, but don't have the patience (hello, Ayn Rand.** Hello,
Atlas Shrugged. I'll get to your life-changing and perspective-shifting brilliance someday!).
So, I went to the bookstore today and headed straight to the English section of course, which is nicely titled, in English, "English Books." Sophie would be so proud! After discovering there are many cute, small, cheap incarnation of classics I have always meant to read (bright green covers! recycled paper!), I was set on buying
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (yes, I was unimpressed by the Tim Burton's latest incarnation, but it still piqued my interest enough to see what the original was all about),
A Picture of Dorian Gray (So famous! So trendy! How have I never read it, especially when Oscar Wilde is so insanely quotable?!*), and
The Great Gatsby, which, naturally, I'd been required to read in high school yet never completed, even though I can still picture the blue-purple border and vague, impressionistic, brooding painting of the copy the "bookstore" (a window where I forfeited way too much money before the advent of, or at least my discover of, Half.com) at Xavier sold me. It's about being cynical, jaded, and insane, right?! I'm in!
But, then, I spotted the Nick Hornby section. He has always been recommended, and I saw the depressing movie version of "About a Boy" when it came out when I was in 8th or 9th grade (gosh! I remember the horrid orange "Abercrombie and Fitch" glitter-printed shirt I wore, and the disastrously trendy Rocket Dogs, and how my old crush, who I'd play hide-and-seek with in AOL instant messages [what?!], had been there, and how I'd towered over him in my insane shoes... 14-year-old boys are hardly men, and there are few males I could ever "tower" over now, even when I am feeling my largest! Anyway, no wonder I didn't appreciate the film then! I had much more important things on my mind!), complete with the best Britain has to offer, in the minds of (most?) Americans: Hugh Grant.
Who, incidentally, I never liked: he always struck me as smarmy and insincere and all together too sure of his good looks and dashing accent (my naivete-born-of-American-ness means I, still, have little ability to tell "posh" accents from the [horror! filth!] cockney ones; all I know is, the gents on BBC world sound a little stuffy for my liking. But, they have dull jobs, don't they?). Anyway, I was sort of vindicated when my British mate slagged off Hugh Grant for his sickening "posh" accent. Amen! Besides my dislike for Mr. Grant, I am otherwise completely smitten by all things British at the moment, from fry-ups and beans for breakfast, to Lily Allen's topless beach-side escapades and public drunkenness, novelists (as witnessed by all three books I did end up buying!), and the word "knickers." Indeed, then, it's with great interest that I've realized it's much more common to find British books in France than American (save for the most well-written offering of this millennium: those vampire books by Stephenie [spelled SO WRONG!] Meyer and Charlaine "I-lack-a-neck" Harris, the latter of which can be tolerated because the show that sprung from her books featured screenwriters more talented than she and also stars a Brit and a Kiwi). Obviously, the ample supply of British books is fine by me, as I'd rather disassociate myself from my own lot anyway--especially if the best we apparently have to offer is the
Twilight series. Kill me. Please. But, I digress. Generally, I like British writing (indeed, ever since I read the laugh-out-loud hilarious
Angus, Thongs, and Full-frontal Snogging, which I remember having to stifle my uncontrollable giggles over, since I was on an airplane while I read it). Of course, that being said, I have to admit I appreciate only what I can understand of their supremely complex and witty use of sarcasm, being the lowly septic that I am! In the end, I just get a kick out of the foreign colloquialisms. And the word "wanker." Because I am a dork. A very immature dork.
So, I picked up
High Fidelity, another of Nick Hornby's that has been made into a movie... but I have not seen it. Which, generally, I find key. For example, knowing the tragic ending of
Revolutionary Road made me set the book back down, even though I am sure it, too, is a fascinating read. I started reading the first page of
High Fidelity, and, so ironically, there it was: Hertfordshire. The only other area in England I know of besides London (and, perhaps tellingly, it features a red squiggly mistype marker here in my American text-edit). And that's one more than most Americans! (Similarly, it's a common belief that France is comprised completely of the city of Paris, as I am reminded again and again as friends and family ask me how things are going "in Paris." Not sure what the weather's like over there, a four hour drive from here, but Lyon is just lovely, thanks for asking!). But, this book was 7 euros and the cute little green numbers were only 2.60. So I set it down and walked away, but I the thought of the irony (I've actually heard of that place!), I liked the idea of a lost love from a poor little Brit's perspective, and I consoled myself that I probably have that blue-purple rimmed copy of
The Great Gatsby at home on a shelf (or, more likely, in Bob's storage unit).
In summation, I hope this "million-copy best seller" that is "funny and wise, sweet and true" and leaves you believing "not only in the redemptive power of music but also the redemptive power of love" really delivers. And with no Hugh Grant references.
*Oh, hélas: "America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between."
I like this, too:
"Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative." **Also quotable: "Love is blind, they say; sex is impervious to reason and mocks the power of all philosophers. But, in fact, a person’s sexual choice is the result and sum of their fundamental convictions. Tell me what a person finds sexually attractive and I will tell you their entire philosophy of life. Show me the person they sleep with and I will tell you their valuation of themselves. No matter what corruption they’re taught about the virtue of selflessness, sex is the most profoundly selfish of all acts, an act which they cannot perform for any motive but their own enjoyment - just try to think of performing it in a spirit of selfless charity! - an act which is not possible in self-abasement, only in self-exultation, only on the confidence of being desired and being worthy of desire. It is an act that forces them to stand naked in spirit, as well as in body, and accept their real ego as their standard of value. They will always be attracted to the person who reflects their deepest vision of themselves, the person whose surrender permits them to experience - or to fake - a sense of self-esteem .. Love is our response to our highest values - and can be nothing else."
***There's a great example of this unfair stereotype in David Lodge's
Thinks..., when the heroine discusses the use of the water closet with her American sub-letters. "They seem quite nice... if a little tone-deaf to English humour [with a "u"]. When I told him that 'You just have to be firm' with the flush-handle in the downstairs loo, and 'Don't take no for an answer,' he thought I was telling him to call a plumber." Too clever for their own good, those Brits!
Also purchased:
Sour strawberry lollies. I know they have zero redemptive qualities and I know I will have no self control and will eat (am currently eating) them until my tongue is raw and bleeding, and yet, it's been, like, totally three weeks since I've had any! I
deserve them. (Jokes!)
A flowered scarf from H+M, which, I was dismayed to discover, was right next to some of the little hairclips I wanted to keep my top knot in place... and which I had just paid three euros more for at Claire's. Yes, Claire's. I am ashamed. I should never doubt that I can purchase anything I will ever need or want at H+M. Well, except for black tights. Because there were none there today.
Today, I also made a delicious white pizza featuring fresh basil, ham, corn, mozarella, and caramalized onions. Miam miam! The diet is going smashingly well!
Oh! And! I. CLEANED. MY. ROOM. Really, this is a huge fucking accomplishment and is the real reason I deserve those damn lollies.
Finally, the song "Werewolf" by CocoRosie is REALLY doing GREAT things for me today:
"Left stains on my sheets and stains on my soul."
Um, check.
And, yet:
"I'm a shake you off though/get up on that horse and/ride into the sunset/look back with no remorse."
