Must Love Library Cards

So, I posted a link on Facebook that started an amusing exchange...

LINK:

Essay About Love and Literary Taste - New York Times
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/30/books/review/Donadio-t.html?em&ex=1207022400&en=be66964abe7c5f54&ei=5087__
(Among the bookish, even casual literary references can turn into romantic deal breakers.)

COMMENTS:

Linda at 2:31pm Mar 30
i JUST read this article this morning and thought it was wonderful. yes yes, so true. :)

Jenni at 2:38pm Mar 30
when i meet attractive, funny men, i secretly cross my fingers, hoping they don't list dan brown and james patterson among their favorite authors... ;)

Linda at 2:42pm Mar 30
HA! i love it! i just usually hope not to get an empty stare when i mention Isabelle Allende or Pablo Neruda...

Jenni at 2:46pm Mar 30
neruda is fair... but i would be a little lenient with allende. unless, of course, said date is from peru.

Linda at 3:04pm Mar 30
true, however Allende does tend to get more of a response then Neruda... go figure! maybe i just don't date enough South Americans. hmmm...

Natalie at 5:55pm Mar 30
You were among the people I thought about when I stumbled upon this little gem. There are the obvious red flags--personally, I think Left Behind tops the Da Vinci Code on that front--and then there are high-brow red flags. Like Ulysses. The only reason to read that in public is to be seen.

Victoria at 2:28pm Mar 31
Absolutely true! Thank you for sharing :)I am just thankful when someone has hear of Pushkin. Forget about reading anything by him. Surprisingly enough, many people have never heard of the great poet.

Colby at 10:48pm Apr 1
I hate to be the contrarian here, but there is, in my opinion, a bit of hypocrisy in writing off someone as shallow, incompatible, or undeserving solely on the book they are carrying around or list as their favorite. So some guy reads Da Vinci Code, Ulysses, or any other book you deem to be pablum, does that truly identify him? Are you not engaging in a hasty generalization? Or even the obvious question: how does your taste become a red flag, why are you able to determine that Pushkin knowledge is a good thing, or more importantly good art? Basically, what I am saying is that some of us didn't have the opportunities to read what you, or the rest of the world, consider necessarily or important to have read. From a Rawlsian perspective I would have you consider what if I rated your appeal based on your philosophical readings or lack thereof--that would seem a bit unfair would it not? And don't worry if you don't know who Rawls was, I won't hold it against you. ; )

David at 11:16pm Apr 3
this guy wants to sleep with one of the three women above.

Colby at 12:34am Apr 4
C'mon Dave I have heard better ad hominem from the kids over at Digg. But seriously, I hate it when yet another qualification is prescribed for men, to which we must contort ourselves. I have no doubt that if Brad Pitt read only Choose Your Own Adventure books, swearing that they were the best literature since Cervantes--even though Alan Bloom himself would recoil--that Rachel Donadio wouldn't be turning him away. That is all I wanted to point out. But if you would care to retort with more of your engaging repartee then be my guest.

Jenni at 2:37am Apr 4
haha- play nice, boys.

ok- now, colby, be fair- dave's comment is funnny. AND a logical retort to your comment.

i also think it's fair that you point out the injustice in dismissing a date if he hasn't read the right book. as a girl who has dated the musician who liked the 'right' composer, the writer who liked the 'right' author, the actor who liked the 'right' playwright, i will agree that none of these things serve as a consistent and reliable indicator of compatibility. i will also posit that dating artists is perhaps the first step towards misguided... i digress.

i would never count it against someone, friend or date, if they didn't, for example, have an affinity for faulkner. i've recommended 'the sound and the fury' to many who haven't made it past the fourth page. however, there is some merit in a comparison of tastes. if a guy lists 'dumb and dumber' and 'van wilder' among his favorite movies of all time- and then, claims john grisham as the second coming- it's quite likely that we operate on different wavelengths. not a value judgement- just divergent sensibilities. (if, on the other hand, he likes 'harold and kumar' and anne rice- we might be workable.) hell- i love 'joe versus the volcano' and read the whole series of star trek TNG books... would you suggest for a second that it wouldn't be a deal-breaker to some?

and regarding all the notable fiction valued by us women- we KNOW that the average joe is recommended some of the best books (excepting machiavelli and vonnegut) by the women in his life. (i am exaggerating, but is this so wrong?) for instance, just the other day, i spotted 'snow falling on cedars' on the bookshelf of one of my favorite guy friends. did he pick that book up of his own volition? doubtful. was it recommended to him by some cute girl? probably. OR his sister. i am OK with this.

then, there are those guys who read the NYer for fun. they are a breed in and of themselves. the self-identified intelligentsia. (i know this, b/c i subscribed for a year so that i could feel smarter and impress at cocktail parties with my academic soundbytes- only to become frustrated that i could never make it through an issue before the next one arrived.) the ones who DO indeed make it through every issue either teach for a living, are wealthy hypochondriacs (thus spending an inordinate amount of time in high-brow doctors' offices), never get laid, or are the type to hitchhike across the country desperately posing for the freedom and seeming effortlessness of kerouac. and believe me, i ain't knocking- i raise my glass to you, mr. chain-smoking-beret-wearing-beat-cum-emo-man! (they make good fantasies, since they are generally passionate and at the mercy of any woman who can pay for their pearl beer.)

and you're right- rachel donadio and harold bloom deserve kudos. they are both exceedingly brilliant and well-read and have managed to function in real life. procreate even. yay for them! you already know my stance on this, colby- must i remind you? we need more supermodels and PHDs to spawn- let's even out this gene pool once and for all!

where am i going with this, you might ask? i don't even know.

all i know is that i think it's kinda hot when a guy wants to recite poetry to me...IF it's good. IF it's his- even better. (IF it's good, that is.) IF it's bad, it makes me want to slap him. and not in a good way. cliched? absolutely! but kind of like large-breasted blondes in bikinis...

if said guy looks like eric bana with glasses, he could be reciting dr. seuss or shel silverstein and it would STILL be kinda hot. (Horton Hears a Who's your daddy?!)

and are you trying to dismiss 'choose your own adventure' books?! they were the bedrock of my elementary literary escapades! i only started denouncing 'baysitter's club' and 'sweet valley high' as pedestrian when i reached middle school and got in trouble with miles for tossing those books out the 2nd floor classroom window. (100% true story. the teacher couldn't bring herself to give us detention, since i think she found the whole affair pretty amusing.)

i leave on this note: i do not consider myself well-read. i only know what i like. i do not judge on the basis of exposure or lack thereof- nor do i damn anyone for an appreciation of a little drivel now and again. open-mindedness and a willingness to expand one's literary horizons is, however, a plus. my bookshelf is respectable, but not impressive by any means. still, if given the choice, i take dave eggers over james patterson. (if he were a few inches taller and unmarried, it'd be even better.)

...and if anyone takes this seriously, they should review the literary genre of satire.

gute nacht!

-jenni "lady love" rebecca

(figured i'd throw in a little rawlsian of my own)

and a quote to grow on:

"Just because the f*cker's got a library card doesn't make him Yoda!"
-Brad Pitt in Se7en

mem'ries

stuck at home today, i was cleaning out and organizing some files on my computer when i came across something i wrote 10 years ago for my junior english class. the assignment was to retell a fairy tale or well-known story in the style of an american author. and here is mine:

I saw the green thing in the distance. We walked toward the green thing. We walked toward it through the red flowers. They smelled good. Dorothy held my hand and we walked together. Then she let go and I tripped. I saw red shapes. I tried to stand, and I fell onto the grass with the red flowers. I felt tired and started to cry.
"Stop your snivellin." said the grey man with the ax. "Your stuffings comin out."
I stopped crying and got up. The lion looked at me and gave me a flower to play with. The flower was pretty and I liked holding it. Then I got tired and fell down again. I dropped the flower, and I tried to cry. I opened my mouth and made a noise.
Dorothy came to me. "What is it. Are you hurt." said Dorothy. I tried to say. She pulled me up and put straw in my sleeve. Dorothy held my hand again. Dorothy smelled like flowers. Dorothy held my hand and I stopped crying.
"I'll show you what I can do, my pretty." said the lady in the big black hat. I reached for the place where it was warm. I pulled my hand back and there was fire. Dorothy screamed.
"Put it out." Dorothy said. Her voice was loud. Then my voice was loud. The lady in the black hat laughed. She laughed and laughed, and then she went away.
"Hush now." Dorothy said. "You are alright. I'll take care of you."
"You are alright." Dorothy said. "I have to go away now, but I'll never forget you." Dorothy held me. She didn't smell like flowers and I started crying. Dorothy's eyes got red, and she let go and went to the big red balloon. I reached for her, but I couldn't touch her, and I cried and cried.
"Stop that moaning." said the grey man with the ax. "How can anyone get anything done with you whining all the time." The grey man with the ax glared at Dorothy.
Dorothy pressed my hand and I was quiet. She smelled like flowers. She picked up the flower I dropped and gave it to me. Dorothy yawned. We walked through the red flowers toward the green thing and I got tired. The man with the ax layed down in the flowers and tried to sleep. The grey man with the ax layed down, and then Dorothy layed down. She pulled me next to her. She smelled like flowers. The lion tried to pull Dorothy up. He tugged at her arm, and he couldn't keep her up. Then he layed down and went to sleep.
The birds screamed. The birds flew around my head and I got scared. Then Dorothy uncaught me, and she pulled me from the big stick I hung on, and the birds went away. I liked Dorothy. She was pretty and smelled like flowers.
"Who are you." Dorothy said. I tried to say. "Who are you." Dorothy said. I opened my mouth and tried to say. "You dont have a brain, do you." Dorothy said. I made a sound.
"Dont worry." Dorothy said. "I'll take you with me to the wizard. We'll take care of you." Her voice was like wind.
The wind was cold. I opened my eyes and mouth, and I felt something cold and wet go in. Then my mouth was cold. I looked and there was white on the red flowers. Then the white covered up the red, and I started crying. I couldn't smell the flowers.
"Get up, you idiot." said the grey man with the ax.
"Leave him alone." Dorothy said. She reached for me. "You've got to get up." Dorothy said. "It's too cold for you in the snow." She pulled me up.
The lion was already up. He looked at Dorothy. He looked sad.
I got up and we walked toward the green thing through the white.


I walked through the forest, and the shadows of the trees, casting some sort of divine judgement upon me, appeared to follow me wherever I walked. The wind was cold, and I remembered what I had done wrong. My paws were dirty, and I proceeded to clean them, but I couldn't get them clean enough. They were stained red. The red of poppies. Poppies. Poppies for anyone but her. Courage was not mine. It was the tin-man's. Let him have it. Do you have it? Do you?
I never had it. Because the wizard said he couldn't give it to me anyway. He said if I were to ever have it, I'd have to get it myself he said. He said men lie about being cowards.
The shadows followed me. Followed me out of the forest and into the field. Yes. That's what happened. The shadows followed me into the poppies. That's why she fell asleep. The shadows. No, I remember, the shadows came after the poppies.
I licked my paws again, but they wouldn't come clean. Only red. Red. Red.
Why did she lay down in the field and not in the palace? Why?
And after I watched my shadow on the leaves, I saw it. I saw him. The other lion leaped from the bushes and took his prey. What did I do wrong? I should have killed all of them. I did.
The witch hurt her, but I should have done it. I should have eaten her, but I couldn't. If only I could say Witch. We were all wrong to her. All four of us. But she said get Dorothy out of my land she said.
In the shadow of one particular tree, I saw a red apple. I took it in my paws. I knew it would taste good, but then the red became brighter, and I couldn't eat it. Couldn't eat it. The red. The red on her. Would she have eaten the apple?
I wanted to talk with you I said and he said he knew
he said he knew everything he said
I said wizard, why am I so afraid
and casually he said everyone is
But why am I a coward when I am a lion I said
he said you'll find out some day he said
and I please help me find strength and he strength is only yours to find and I why did she do it and he because it is like a woman to succumb to spells and I why couldn't I stop it and he you tried and I I just couldn't get her up and he I know and I I failed and he she's not your responsibility and I why couldn't I eat her then and he did you want to and I no and he you worry too much and I I only want to be what is expected and he there is your mistake
Red poppies. Red on my hands. Red. Red. Red.


Once a bitch always a bitch, what I say. She should work like me, cutting down apple trees all day long, instead of wearing those damn gawdy-looking, ruby-colored shoes. She goes tripping down that yellow-brick road with that idiot of hers and that feeble feline and expects me to believe in her schemes. I'll drink to that! I don't need a heart anyway. I'll get everything I need when I sell those apples of mine. Still she says,
"But you've got to come with us to see the wizard--"
"What do I need with a wizard?" I ask her.
She thought about it for awhile.
"If you don't have a heart, then you'll never love."
I reply that I don't need love either and that she better stop bothering me or I'm liable to knock her upside-the-head with the butt of my ax. You see, no one ever appreciates the simple fact that I need to work. I need to work all the time, and I don't need to be trapsing off to any damn Emerald Cities anytime soon.
I start to think about the witch, though. She's pretty old. Obviously, the old bag's gonna die soon. Moreover, she can't be too quick on her feet or with that broom of hers. If I were to go with the stooges, I may have myself a chance at the witch and her treasure.
So, I went with them. Mind you, it was irratating as hell. The fool was always moaning and crying and losing his straw-stuffing, and the lion was always worrying about his shadow or his dirty paws or something. I'll tell you something, though. Those paws were more worthless than dirty to me. That lion probably never worked a day in his life, let alone ever killed anything.
As we were making our way to Emerald City, it rained. Of course, you know that rain is just about the worse damn thing that can possibly happen to me. That's my luck for you. But that Dorothy didn't help my luck none too much, either.
I never did get any money from that witch, or even the heart that was promised me. I didn't get nothing at all, as usual. It just goes to show you that you've got to depend on yourself, 'cause no one else out there will be looking after you if you don't. I'm just happy that that girl is gone for good over that goddamned rainbow. Now I can get back to my own affairs.

*********************
it's fairly easy to guess which novel i was imitating. please be kind, as i was 17 when i wrote this...

NYer than you

i vowed that i would not renew my new yorker subscription when my year was finished. why?

1. the articles are too long...7-10 pages a piece at times.
2. it comes every week, leaving me no time to finish one issue before the next arrived in the mail.
3. i'm convinced that the editors don't read through all the cartoon caption entries, as i've submitted countless captions far more clever than those that win.
4. i'm starting to feel both falsely validated (being one of the pretentious, self-important elitists who subscribe) to intensely inferior and inadequate because i can't manage to finish a single issue before either losing interest or getting frustrated by the esoteric ego-stroking evident in the articles (how's that assonance for ya?).

so, the last 4 or 5 issues have arrived with a dustcover announcing the impending doom of my subscription...'last issue before service interruption'...'don't miss your opportunity to stay up to date with the new yorker'...'no more cartoons?' and i've turned my nose up at each issue. 'i can take you or leave you,' i say casually. i toss it aside...to read later...IF i get around to it.

and so, i finally pick up the last few magazines. and there's this great article about the progress in criminal lie-detection utilizing fMRI technology...the area of expertise of the very friend who turned me on to the NYer in the first place. and then, this great article about the music industry's conundrum with the advent of easy downloads...and how it has actually benefitted the classical music portion of the business. (seriously, what layperson actually downloads schoenberg?) and there was also that great article about the new biography on charles schulz. highlights from the book, his cartoon, and his life outlined in the 10-page article, along with personal anecdotes (such as revealing the squawking, nonsensical speech of the adults in 'peanuts' to be reminiscent of schulz's first wife). not to mention an absolutely fabulous short story ('mr. bones') by paul theroux (of 'mosquito coast' fame), as well as a depressing, but fascinating article about babies with colic and the potential long-term effects it has on both child and parents....that i am both tempted and hesitant to share with the million pregnant friends i have currently. but if that wasn't enough, let me not forget the article on elizabeth lecompte...my hero. the OTHER person i want to be when i grow up...julie taymor being the first. (the founder of the wooster group in NYC, famous for experiemental theatre productions juxtaposing classical rep, pop references, and contemporary aesthetics in a dangerous multimedia blitz.) the feature outlining her childhood, her break-throughs, her relationships, and her recent production of 'hamlet'...all along with a great photo. her hopes, dreams, and fears in a 10-page spread.

and i'm annoyed. i'm annoyed because it seems as though the big guns were brought out in my honor. why, just when i'm content to let my subscription lapse into obscurity, i read the five or six best articles all year?! so, is this the MO? is this the grand plan? skate by with filler until my renewal time?

well, damn. you've won, NYer...you've won. my check is in the mail.