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Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin is pissing me off. Maybe I JUZT DUN GET IT!111!!1 or UR DOIN IT RONG!111!!11, but I'm almost done with the book for class and I want to strangle David and yell his head off. You can only be in denial for so fucking long until the river floods, killing all you hold dear but you just blame the world and life for Being So Cruel without ever taking account that it was you who was a spineless wimp that maybe could've led a better life if you got yourself a fucking job rather than leeching money off your dad and some dude who's probably as much douche as you are, but... UGH.
Lying and infidelity damages less lives than homosexuality. Has Brokeback Mountain along with every other classic piece of gay literature (read: every single one of them about gay exploitation) taught you nothing? The Sad Life of a Dick should be the name of a genre by now.
It's also sad that I've come to believe Humbert Humbert was more honest with me than David. The warts are right there whether Humbert wants them or not, but David lies to himself as much as he lies to everyone else. How can I ever bring myself to trust him?
I think I'm starting to form a test that determines whether I like a book or not. When I get emotionally involved with something, it's gone beyond neutral. It's not just dull text book crap I can read through and forget about; I'm starting to judge characters and plot points. I'm pointing out sentences that are funky and interesting or make me cringe. Heck, I do the same thing with movies and video games, anything with a story. I just happen to notice it most in books. But here's the thing. I read something questionable. By "questionable", I don't mean controversial. I mean things like, "Okay, this character isn't doing what I think she's doing, is she?" "Um, wait a minute, author. I hate this plot point. What shit are you trying to throw at me? You better explain this or make it good." "I don't think I trust this person. Author, what's next? Give me a sign? ...Guess not. Okay. I'm ready to be thrown a loop then." If the author acknowledges my questions in some way, be it addressing my concerns (ex. hated plot point shredded, character addressing my thoughts like they're reading my mind and sympathizing) or playing with my head and leading me in weird directions than I expected, I'll be a soothed and happy reader; the author doesn't think I'm stupid and I can come to trust them with my heart after they've proved their worth with my head. But if the author repeatedly ignores me, indulging in whatever is bothering me without tapping into what's troubling me at all, I get pissed off. Frankly, the longer the author ignores me, the angrier I become.
That's how it is with Giovanni's Room. It's a quick read with a beautiful writing style, told in the POV of a guy I can't stand. Arguing with David is like screaming at a brick wall. He's never going to hear my outraged cries and argue back why this isn't so or admit to surrender ("Yes, I admit it, I'm a horrible douche!" "Ah good. At least that gives me a little satisfaction after the hours I wasted reading about you."). Whereas Nabokov pats me on the head, tells me I'm supposed to be skeptical and disgusted, and lets me come to my own conclusions rather than treating me like an idiot.
Shigesato Itoi definitely never treated me like an idiot. Pokemon sometimes listens to me (Movie 1 & 8, most of 11) or downright pretends I don't exist, which leads to utter hatred of such films (Movie 7, 98.89% of Movie 10).
Edit: Finished. And apparently, David STILL doesn't get it. *gnashing of teeth* Resisting the urge to fling book to the wall and stomp on it. If it hadn't already had such a nice felt cover I like feeling. Perfect too, no creases or rips. Who wants to ruin that? That and I'll be returning this for cash at the end of the semester anyway.
Lying and infidelity damages less lives than homosexuality. Has Brokeback Mountain along with every other classic piece of gay literature (read: every single one of them about gay exploitation) taught you nothing? The Sad Life of a Dick should be the name of a genre by now.
It's also sad that I've come to believe Humbert Humbert was more honest with me than David. The warts are right there whether Humbert wants them or not, but David lies to himself as much as he lies to everyone else. How can I ever bring myself to trust him?
I think I'm starting to form a test that determines whether I like a book or not. When I get emotionally involved with something, it's gone beyond neutral. It's not just dull text book crap I can read through and forget about; I'm starting to judge characters and plot points. I'm pointing out sentences that are funky and interesting or make me cringe. Heck, I do the same thing with movies and video games, anything with a story. I just happen to notice it most in books. But here's the thing. I read something questionable. By "questionable", I don't mean controversial. I mean things like, "Okay, this character isn't doing what I think she's doing, is she?" "Um, wait a minute, author. I hate this plot point. What shit are you trying to throw at me? You better explain this or make it good." "I don't think I trust this person. Author, what's next? Give me a sign? ...Guess not. Okay. I'm ready to be thrown a loop then." If the author acknowledges my questions in some way, be it addressing my concerns (ex. hated plot point shredded, character addressing my thoughts like they're reading my mind and sympathizing) or playing with my head and leading me in weird directions than I expected, I'll be a soothed and happy reader; the author doesn't think I'm stupid and I can come to trust them with my heart after they've proved their worth with my head. But if the author repeatedly ignores me, indulging in whatever is bothering me without tapping into what's troubling me at all, I get pissed off. Frankly, the longer the author ignores me, the angrier I become.
That's how it is with Giovanni's Room. It's a quick read with a beautiful writing style, told in the POV of a guy I can't stand. Arguing with David is like screaming at a brick wall. He's never going to hear my outraged cries and argue back why this isn't so or admit to surrender ("Yes, I admit it, I'm a horrible douche!" "Ah good. At least that gives me a little satisfaction after the hours I wasted reading about you."). Whereas Nabokov pats me on the head, tells me I'm supposed to be skeptical and disgusted, and lets me come to my own conclusions rather than treating me like an idiot.
Shigesato Itoi definitely never treated me like an idiot. Pokemon sometimes listens to me (Movie 1 & 8, most of 11) or downright pretends I don't exist, which leads to utter hatred of such films (Movie 7, 98.89% of Movie 10).
Edit: Finished. And apparently, David STILL doesn't get it. *gnashing of teeth* Resisting the urge to fling book to the wall and stomp on it. If it hadn't already had such a nice felt cover I like feeling. Perfect too, no creases or rips. Who wants to ruin that? That and I'll be returning this for cash at the end of the semester anyway.
