wide sargasso sea.

I always mistrusted Mr. Rochester. And now I know why. Jean Rhys was right. Is right. Jean Rhys is right. He's awful.

I feel like I've read Jane Eyre a lot. Once in highschool, then we did it in English last year. And I'm the kind of nerd who doesn't achieve the marks that warrant nerdiness, but still, I've read Jane Eyre about three times. And not because it's my favourite gothic novel. Infact, I'm pretty disinterested in Jane Eyre, despite it being one of my favourite lectures series (which has more to do with the lecturer than the book). I guess I'm just a Wuthering Heights kinda gal.

Anyway! The point is - Jane Eyre has popped up frequently in my world so she's been on my mind. I watched the movie a couple of weeks ago with Tess (and we did enjoy it) then she got all excited about the book and read to me bits of Mr. Rochester's apology for harvesting a mad wife while I washed the dishes. And as I manoeuvred wine glasses, soap suds and bits of pancake scraped off the pan, I realised that Mr. Rochester is completely awful, despite his frowny wit and disgruntling appeal. Then I got cross with Jane. Then I decided the two deserved each other.

Then, whilst roving a bookstore last weekend, I came across Wide Sargasso Sea which I remembered Them telling us to read. The novel by Jean Rhys is about Mr. Rochester's Mad Wife before Mr. Rochester. And Jean Rhys was right. I'm not sure why, but after reading this book you think, "Aha! So that's what happened... why didn't Charlotte mention all this?!" Set in Jamaica, Wide Sargasso Sea tells the story preceding Jane and Rochester's Great Love; the story of Mrs. Rochester/Antoinette Cosway/Bertha Mason and her life before Thornfield. (Jean Rhys knew about the importance of names, just as Charlotte Bronte knew about the importance of Plain Jane's name.) And now I'm convinced that Mr. Rochester is a no-good, paedophile imperialist.

I would have loved to have been lectured on this book in addition to Jane Eyre. It's that good. To be honest, I sped through it quite quickly because it also has that gothic-y tense element of Jane Eyre which makes you want to turn pages. I may have been too hard on Mr. Rochester... I don't think British white men could help but be horrid in the 1830s. So yes, I got quite caught up with the plot and probably missed a bunch of really intelligent comments about whatever it is that intelligent authors comment on.

There was stuff about Victorian sexuality, imperialism, feminism. And that was all nice. But what interested me was how quietly menacing the book was. Especially in the beginning. Nothing specific really happens for a while, but the last time I was that terrified whilst reading was my childhood fascination with the Book of Revelations. A very still and quiet book... and absolutely scary. Scary in a classy, brilliant way that makes you only aware of your dread in hindsight when you're writing a pointless blog about it. Jean Rhys knew what was up. The whole time. She knew about Rochester and his quiet British terrifying charm.

Ok.

Attempting Country of My Skull by Antjie Krog now. But that might take a while. Until then I may treat myself to some Frank Herbert. But I have been enjoying this medley of female authors so maybe some Joanne Harris? Her books always make me hungry.

(Oh, and apologies for the lack of two little dots that should be present in Charlotte Bronte's name. I'm sure the dots have a proper name. But I don't know it, nor do I know how to make them appear when I want them. So yes.)

the god of small things.

I forgot how long it takes to read a book. During dull and studious moments I fantasized and romanticized about novels, longingly looking at my bookshelf thinking of all the breezy fun narratives I would encounter once exams are done. But I forgot that breezy stories take a while to unwrap and most of them aren't so breezy. Breezy. (Is it just me, or does the word 'breezy' suddenly sound sluttish?) And most 'good' books are just sad books really. Someone always dies. And so my funsy-novel-devouring-holiday has turned into a bit of depressing break from real life.

It's a funny story about my copy of The God of Small Things... Friends came to stay for the weekend a month before I went to India at the beginning of this year, and as a thank-you-present my friend later posted a copy of The God of Small Things to me (excited for me to read it because I was going to the very place where the book is set.) It never arrived. I went to India without reading it. I returned. I had a birthday party where another friend... (I'm a popular gal. No. I'm not really. And I think it's because I'm ok with using the word 'gal')... another friend gave me a copy. The mailed copy still hadn't arrived. So I read the copy I got for my birthday.

In hindsight, that's not really a funny story. At all.

Anyway.

I really did enjoy reading this book. Aside from being surprised that I didn't finish it in one afternoon (and having my private, but properly smug thoughts of, "I'm going to read a-book-a-day!" appropriately crushed). Maybe that's another sign of a 'good' book. Generally sad, someone dies, and it takes at least 6 days to read. The God of Small Things fits all those things. Except it is also insanely beautifully written. I think this is because the author very clearly likes words. In the same way that some people like shoes, perfume, scarves, cars, puppies. There is a certain type of person that really likes words, as actual things, not necessarily for their purpose, just for their existence. How they look and sound. I think Arundhati Roy is one of them. And I like any person who likes words. She also happens to use them incredibly well and can mould them into a poignant and intelligent plot. Which is nice. It's nice when both of those things happen together.

Oh yes... almost forgot. Another thing that probably makes a book 'good'. (If I stop putting the word 'good' in quotation marks will you still know what I mean?)... The weather. This was yet another weather-filled book. Humid, soggy, damp. I would settle down barefoot to read it because it's a sweaty, outdoorsy type of book then wonder why I was freezing an hour later. Weather. It's relevant.

So, I'm tired. And I will conclude by simply stating that reading this book made me very happy, even though it was sickeningly sad. You gals should read it, too.

(I'm still getting the hang of writing down thoughtsaboutbooks again. Tried to make my blog prettier with backgrounds and stuff and couldn't figure it out. And the word 'gals' can refer to boys, too, right?)