First of all, I tend to dislike book reviews because they are a science created to criticize art and extract spindley, gangly bones to act as weapons from some living, breathing, beautiful creature. Thus butchering it.
So all my reviews are all very emotion-led, absolutely unrefined, and probably terrible.
But, I've just finished The Elegance of the Hedgehog and I need some sort of outlet for everything spinning inside of it.
I absolutely cannot believe it. Maybe a more cynical reader saw it coming from miles away, but I did not. I was so wrapped up in philosophical wonderings and the antics of intelligent children to guess. Of course, I had my guesses, but they were incorrect.
Some moments, while reading, I was so excited I could barely go on. I was quite literally gasping and jumping and screaming. Every chapter I had to give Adam updates on what was happening because I couldn't be this story's only witness.
The highs were so high. And the ending so graceful and poignant, I almost feel like I should ignore the tragedy and consider it a happy ending. But there is still a sort of empty cavernous feeling. A sad ending I don't want to come to terms with or feel.
How could that be it? How can life be so punishing?
This may sound really ridiculous but last night (which we spent in btw because I was sick. For the 7th day in a row) we watched a documentary on the animals living in yellowstone. I'm used to these sort of natural dramas playing out but somehow last night, maybe on account of my precarious health, I was more sensitive to the life-and-death-goings-on. The Buffalo would wade through the snow with the big necks and thick fur and infinitesimally forlorn eyes and I wasn't prepared for the cruelty of its death. The unjust way in which we are all dealt lives without consideration of our circumstances. Some people smoke every day for decades unpunished while some who have never even experimented die a terrible death. Some people work even though they're ill to the point of crying in the bathroom while others are rewarded for no good reason at all.
That damn buffalo worked so hard and so tirelessly in the winter for his 30 lbs. Or whatever of grass needed a day without harming or hunting anyone. And when it grew too difficult, as a last resort, it ate the grass near the geyser's edge. Causing it to collapse from arsenic poisoning. It succumbs to the snow and dies to be picked apart by crows and bald eagles (which are scavengers by the way. They're practically vultures but don't tell any patriots that.)
The natural way and cycle of things, by definition it seems, is terrible and nasty and completely blind to our silly woes and struggles.
We are all helpless in our fight against fate. But not fate in the predestined spiritual way. Fate in the endless unchanging ebb and flow of time sort of way. Fate that none of us can escape: the helplessness against pure chance. The arbitrariness of occurrences.
This french novel that spent far too much time building up and too much effort into the pretentiousness of philosophy was about just this feelings that I combat, we all combat every day.
Chance, or luck, whichever you prefer to call it, brings to life a woman who had long resigned herself to her lack of it. She had never any fight and wasn't planning or hoping for any. But with the quickness that only pure coincidence could give, her life absolutely blossoms. And my heart, as the reader, bloomed camellias in time with hers. My insecurities and fears welled up with hers. Only to be absolutely deprived of all possibilities.
By a stroke of luck. Fate found her. And with the unforgiving nature of blind happenstance she is victim. No one cared that she should have been spared. Fate did not inquire whether this was an opportune time.
Terrible life. Cruel life.
Some people can give themselves up to this. They can surrender themselves to the universe. For work I go to these therapy seminar things all the time and everyone's always talking about it. Being content that the world will work it out. This is all a little to zen for me. Maybe I am not yet advanced enough in meditation or wisdom to really just let go. Terrible things are happening without rhyme or reason and for some reason I want to fight it. I want to battle each and everyone, keep tragedy at bay by snarling my teeth and demanding control. I cannot accept injustice yet we are prisoner to it every day.
Maybe, to me, this was a novel about the frustrations that arise from this. The toils of working and fighting and struggling against that which cannot be tamed, predicted, or controlled: the unstoppable hand of life.
So all my reviews are all very emotion-led, absolutely unrefined, and probably terrible.
But, I've just finished The Elegance of the Hedgehog and I need some sort of outlet for everything spinning inside of it.
I absolutely cannot believe it. Maybe a more cynical reader saw it coming from miles away, but I did not. I was so wrapped up in philosophical wonderings and the antics of intelligent children to guess. Of course, I had my guesses, but they were incorrect.
Some moments, while reading, I was so excited I could barely go on. I was quite literally gasping and jumping and screaming. Every chapter I had to give Adam updates on what was happening because I couldn't be this story's only witness.
The highs were so high. And the ending so graceful and poignant, I almost feel like I should ignore the tragedy and consider it a happy ending. But there is still a sort of empty cavernous feeling. A sad ending I don't want to come to terms with or feel.
How could that be it? How can life be so punishing?
This may sound really ridiculous but last night (which we spent in btw because I was sick. For the 7th day in a row) we watched a documentary on the animals living in yellowstone. I'm used to these sort of natural dramas playing out but somehow last night, maybe on account of my precarious health, I was more sensitive to the life-and-death-goings-on. The Buffalo would wade through the snow with the big necks and thick fur and infinitesimally forlorn eyes and I wasn't prepared for the cruelty of its death. The unjust way in which we are all dealt lives without consideration of our circumstances. Some people smoke every day for decades unpunished while some who have never even experimented die a terrible death. Some people work even though they're ill to the point of crying in the bathroom while others are rewarded for no good reason at all.
That damn buffalo worked so hard and so tirelessly in the winter for his 30 lbs. Or whatever of grass needed a day without harming or hunting anyone. And when it grew too difficult, as a last resort, it ate the grass near the geyser's edge. Causing it to collapse from arsenic poisoning. It succumbs to the snow and dies to be picked apart by crows and bald eagles (which are scavengers by the way. They're practically vultures but don't tell any patriots that.)
The natural way and cycle of things, by definition it seems, is terrible and nasty and completely blind to our silly woes and struggles.
We are all helpless in our fight against fate. But not fate in the predestined spiritual way. Fate in the endless unchanging ebb and flow of time sort of way. Fate that none of us can escape: the helplessness against pure chance. The arbitrariness of occurrences.
This french novel that spent far too much time building up and too much effort into the pretentiousness of philosophy was about just this feelings that I combat, we all combat every day.
Chance, or luck, whichever you prefer to call it, brings to life a woman who had long resigned herself to her lack of it. She had never any fight and wasn't planning or hoping for any. But with the quickness that only pure coincidence could give, her life absolutely blossoms. And my heart, as the reader, bloomed camellias in time with hers. My insecurities and fears welled up with hers. Only to be absolutely deprived of all possibilities.
By a stroke of luck. Fate found her. And with the unforgiving nature of blind happenstance she is victim. No one cared that she should have been spared. Fate did not inquire whether this was an opportune time.
Terrible life. Cruel life.
Some people can give themselves up to this. They can surrender themselves to the universe. For work I go to these therapy seminar things all the time and everyone's always talking about it. Being content that the world will work it out. This is all a little to zen for me. Maybe I am not yet advanced enough in meditation or wisdom to really just let go. Terrible things are happening without rhyme or reason and for some reason I want to fight it. I want to battle each and everyone, keep tragedy at bay by snarling my teeth and demanding control. I cannot accept injustice yet we are prisoner to it every day.
Maybe, to me, this was a novel about the frustrations that arise from this. The toils of working and fighting and struggling against that which cannot be tamed, predicted, or controlled: the unstoppable hand of life.