Sometimes I get nice complimentary comments on my blog, and they're always kind of vague, and they're always posted by anons. So I get a little paranoid - "what if other people think I'm just complimenting myself under the guise of an anon??" - yes, I'm actually a little paranoid.
Um so no, I don't compliment myself, because that doesn't feel as good as when other people compliment me. So. Haha? This is a very awkward post.
(Been looking at too many tumblr posts about anon asks sent wrong, I suppose.)
23 March 2013
i'd like to recommend a book series and an awesome person
The book series is called the Bridge Chronicles, and the awesome person is Gary A. Ballard, the author.
Why? The Bridge Chronicles is fucking wonderful. It gets a good solid four from me. A coherent, realistic, believable (except for The Know Circuit, I have a few problems with that) storyline. Very good writing. Human characters with human characteristics. There are four books now, but I've only read the first three.
I would have finished them all in one sitting, but I had to go to Thailand for a little while and the glare from the sun doesn't work too well with the iPad.
(Yes, I read ebooks, no, it doesn't bother me. All I care about are the text and formatting, I don't give a single shit about whether I have the physical copy in my hands. I do plan to hunt down extremely pretty editions of my favourite books, though. I'm something of a hoarder, collector, whatever.)
And why am I pimping the author too? (God, the phrasing makes me uncomfortable.)
Because he has a blog, and from what I see, he's a very logical person who's more than willing to consider various perspectives. He seems to make his decisions based on a consideration of all the angles. (Or most angles, at least.) He's wonderfully coherent.
(I was sold after the single post about gun violence. (It's bloody difficult to do html on iPads, by the way.) Very cohesive and persuasive. Then again I was all for gun control in the first place, and also think "guns don't kill people, people kill people" is phenomenally stupid and blind. It's a crazy generalisation.)
Also Ballard is very coherent about how guns are the most efficient murder weapons available... And I really can't believe America doesn't have basic background checks and doesn't require people to prove that they know how to use a gun. Isn't it basic? Make sure that he isn't a psychopath or a total idiot before handing him a killing device?? America what are you doing?
Anyway, Ballard is the most human author I've ever seen. There's always this distance between actual published authors and the rest of us humans, you know? Like singers, actors, whatever. They sometimes feel like they're polished and hyperaware of PR. So they censor themselves like crazy. Ballard writes awesome introductions for his novels. Ballard also writes semi-personal blog posts about kind of controversial things that might damage his reputation or at least make his fans turn away.
(Hey, it happens. You know Ender's Game and its incredibly homophobic author Orson Scott Card or something? I read the first three books of the series, thought they were good, but somehow slightly off-putting. I didn't find out about the author's idiocy until much much later. And then I tried to read the fourth book and ended up feeling nauseous and mildly disgusted. Apparently he didn't preach much about religion or his personal views in the first few books, so that's why I was able to make my way through the books. Objectively speaking the first three books are good, though!! Really.)
(Also with the Lamplighter trilogy. I read the second? Or third book, and thought that I might like to read the others. I didn't actively like the book, but I'm a little OCD and not reading the whole series makes me incredibly frustrated. So I flipped the first page of the trilogy and the author starts thanking god for everything. I just couldn't. I got a little nauseous and annoyed. I mean, what, did you write that book or did you not? Give yourself a little credit. Your god couldn't help starving kids, but helped you write three books??)
Anyway, point is, Ballard is an awesome human being as far as I know. If he turns out to be a intensely religious person I would be intensely disappointed, but he'd still be logical and coherent, and I'd still like that about him. (But I'd think "irony" every time I think about him.) (Just like how I always think "oh the dreadful irony" whenever I read the 'personal beliefs' section on Orson Scott Card's Wikipedia page.)
So here you go. A book rec and a person rec. I hope I didn't fuck things up too much.
Why? The Bridge Chronicles is fucking wonderful. It gets a good solid four from me. A coherent, realistic, believable (except for The Know Circuit, I have a few problems with that) storyline. Very good writing. Human characters with human characteristics. There are four books now, but I've only read the first three.
I would have finished them all in one sitting, but I had to go to Thailand for a little while and the glare from the sun doesn't work too well with the iPad.
(Yes, I read ebooks, no, it doesn't bother me. All I care about are the text and formatting, I don't give a single shit about whether I have the physical copy in my hands. I do plan to hunt down extremely pretty editions of my favourite books, though. I'm something of a hoarder, collector, whatever.)
And why am I pimping the author too? (God, the phrasing makes me uncomfortable.)
Because he has a blog, and from what I see, he's a very logical person who's more than willing to consider various perspectives. He seems to make his decisions based on a consideration of all the angles. (Or most angles, at least.) He's wonderfully coherent.
(I was sold after the single post about gun violence. (It's bloody difficult to do html on iPads, by the way.) Very cohesive and persuasive. Then again I was all for gun control in the first place, and also think "guns don't kill people, people kill people" is phenomenally stupid and blind. It's a crazy generalisation.)
Also Ballard is very coherent about how guns are the most efficient murder weapons available... And I really can't believe America doesn't have basic background checks and doesn't require people to prove that they know how to use a gun. Isn't it basic? Make sure that he isn't a psychopath or a total idiot before handing him a killing device?? America what are you doing?
Anyway, Ballard is the most human author I've ever seen. There's always this distance between actual published authors and the rest of us humans, you know? Like singers, actors, whatever. They sometimes feel like they're polished and hyperaware of PR. So they censor themselves like crazy. Ballard writes awesome introductions for his novels. Ballard also writes semi-personal blog posts about kind of controversial things that might damage his reputation or at least make his fans turn away.
(Hey, it happens. You know Ender's Game and its incredibly homophobic author Orson Scott Card or something? I read the first three books of the series, thought they were good, but somehow slightly off-putting. I didn't find out about the author's idiocy until much much later. And then I tried to read the fourth book and ended up feeling nauseous and mildly disgusted. Apparently he didn't preach much about religion or his personal views in the first few books, so that's why I was able to make my way through the books. Objectively speaking the first three books are good, though!! Really.)
(Also with the Lamplighter trilogy. I read the second? Or third book, and thought that I might like to read the others. I didn't actively like the book, but I'm a little OCD and not reading the whole series makes me incredibly frustrated. So I flipped the first page of the trilogy and the author starts thanking god for everything. I just couldn't. I got a little nauseous and annoyed. I mean, what, did you write that book or did you not? Give yourself a little credit. Your god couldn't help starving kids, but helped you write three books??)
Anyway, point is, Ballard is an awesome human being as far as I know. If he turns out to be a intensely religious person I would be intensely disappointed, but he'd still be logical and coherent, and I'd still like that about him. (But I'd think "irony" every time I think about him.) (Just like how I always think "oh the dreadful irony" whenever I read the 'personal beliefs' section on Orson Scott Card's Wikipedia page.)
So here you go. A book rec and a person rec. I hope I didn't fuck things up too much.
22 March 2013
a rather tedious holiday
A post-holiday report. I think. Well, whatever. I just really needed to bitch.
Thailand, Phuket. This place is full of flies and it fucking disgusts me (the flies, not the country). No matter which way you look at it, I am not a nature person. My idea of nature is something along the lines of a well-maintained clearing with pretty flowers and a cool breeze. Along with lightning-fast internet connection.
By the fourth day I realised that I was in a tour group with racists and idiots. And that my parents were apparently friends with those idiots, and are also included in the group of aforementioned idiots. (They're church friends. Yes. Keep in mind that they're moderate-liberal Methodists who are well-educated.)
God, they're all ridiculous. Disregarding culture, history, and context, they labelled India lawless and hopeless and all rapists. One of the male, beer-guzzling, shit-spouting friends said that he would bomb India and annihilate it if he could. I wanted to make a scathing, cutting remark about how tiny his prehistoric brain was, but took into account other factors such as the remaining two days that I would have to spend with him. I would rather not come across as unpleasant and uneducated, but apparently he has no such qualms. He also hit on a twenty-one years old girl that I'll mention later.
His wife is a vapid, shallow woman who is forty to fifty years old. She's passably pretty, but does not realise that her head appears to be completely empty of all considerations except being pretty, acting young, and pretending to be cool. "Ooo, I want to get a tattoo!" - upon seeing someone get tattooed in a shop. "I don't think you should get a tattoo here because the needles might not be sterilised and then bad things happen." - everyone else along with Common Sense.
They have one child who's like nine. She's nice but has no sense of simplicity or style. An okay kid.
And there's another woman, who's also nearing fifty. Nothing much to say about her, except vaguely annoying in some vaguely indiscernible manner. Not one for respecting personal space.
She has two daughters. One who's twenty-one, quite pretty, with awesome fashion sense. She's kind of a hipster and brought along a canon camera... And didn't do much with it. She seems nice. She's in a polytechnic I think. Tends to get disgustingly cutesy-whiny when trying to bargain. She feels kind of off, though, and is also vaguely irritating in an unknown manner.
The second daughter is thirteen, and is a little bitch who is incapable of respecting personal boundaries, being polite, or obeying social norms. She's the kind of girl who demands that you - her hypothetical friend - buys her sweets with your money because she wants sweets. She has no idea how proper friendship works and will demand five sweets in return for giving you two. She's the kind of girl who will snatch your iPad away and use it whenever she wants, even though she has her own iPad and you clearly want to use your iPad yourself. She's cute but pretentious. Doesn't have much fashion style - kiddy shirt with lacy pants?????!!! A brat. Scrupulously petty... And I... Am sharing a room with her.
And then there's my dad, who willingly pays for extortion... Like a third-rate video of him and my brother on the go-kart track which goes for 800 bahts apparently but was cut down to 500 and then quickly cut down to 300 which is not cheap by any means. Because it's a shitty CD. Not even ten minutes. He's lost his brain just because they put a couple more zeros behind the number. We don't have money to spare. He has two children who needs to go to university and he's lost his fucking brain and is puking money everywhere. He also likes taking pictures of people even when they make it clear that the last thing they want to do is to take a picture and that taking a picture of them will make them really irritated and angry. Read: me. (Okay, sorry, the last part was just because he's a doting daddy. Without much common sense sometimes. The last part about pictures was just me griping needlessly.)
My mother has started speaking in a high, giggly voice that is utterly ridiculous and stupid. It's fake and nauseating, and she doesn't notice anything. If she had a brain, it would shrivel and commit suicide each time she opened her mouth. Is there anyone here who doesn't find meaningless high-pitched giggly laughter irritating as fuck? Get the fuck off my blog. If you're trying to fake laughter then try a bit harder. That kind of giggly stupid high-school girly laughter will get you a slap from me IRL.
So there's also my brother, who throws tantrums for simple things and refuses to eat just because and ends up having to eat instant ramen in his room at night. He's also seven years old. Which means that my parents have to suffer along with him, and by default I have to suffer as well. In fact he ruined many days and spoiled many things and made my dad pay a lot of compensation money.
This is a ridiculous holiday and they are all ridiculous messy and unorganized and the sun really actually burns. (Sorry, I'm kind of OCD sometimes. Messy, unorganized things gives me headaches. I have to physically stop myself from reaching out and rearranging other people's belongings.)
You think I'm exaggerating the unpleasantness of them. You're wrong. I always thought that only television shows were this dramatic and stereotypical, but stereotypes have to come from somewhere. In fact, I have a series of perfect templates for unlikable characters now. My characterization is going to shoot off the chart in terms of realism.
I'm never going on holiday with such unthinking people again. They couldn't even find the luggage belt when they arrived. This is like a competition to see who can be the most brainless person.
Next time I'm going overseas, I'm going with friends. Friends are the family that you choose, right? If a bitch stabs you, you can cut her out of your chosen family. If your mother stabs you she's still your goddamn mother. You also share a lot more interests and viewpoints with your friends. Holidays are meant to be enjoyable. Go with friends. Family trips just make you tired when you're the eldest daughter.
P.S. Phuket tips - if you're planning on going:
If you're going to Phuket, being a ton of strong sunblock or prepare to turn purple. I'm not kidding. Also bring a bit of insect repellent. Wear slippers. Apply sunblock on feet - I AM NOT KIDDING.
APPLY SUNBLOCK EVERYWHERE.
There are lots of family marts and seven-elevens around, so if you can't get used to the food, you won't starve. The food in those shops are pretty cheap, comparatively.
...um... When you take taxis, people sometimes try to cheat you of money, so keep in mind that for a party of around five, for a two to five (or ten??) minute ride, it's about 200 bahts. Also ALWAYS bargain with shop people, the prices are usually exorbitantly high because there are (probably) more tourists than locals there.
Oh and if you go the the beach, the seats cost money. Like, 100 bahts, more or less.
Anyway everything costs money, and everything is over-commercialized.
ALSO SUNBLOCK. Seriously. Especially your shoulders. The sun there is brutal, and I thought I lived in a place with serious sun. Two hours in the sun makes you red. Any more and your skin starts peeling. Actually, the skin on my shoulders is peeling a bit, and I hardly even did anything in the sun. I'm also two shades darker. And a shade redder.
...um... I'm kind of tired, I didn't sleep until two or three in the morning for the entire week.
Thailand, Phuket. This place is full of flies and it fucking disgusts me (the flies, not the country). No matter which way you look at it, I am not a nature person. My idea of nature is something along the lines of a well-maintained clearing with pretty flowers and a cool breeze. Along with lightning-fast internet connection.
By the fourth day I realised that I was in a tour group with racists and idiots. And that my parents were apparently friends with those idiots, and are also included in the group of aforementioned idiots. (They're church friends. Yes. Keep in mind that they're moderate-liberal Methodists who are well-educated.)
God, they're all ridiculous. Disregarding culture, history, and context, they labelled India lawless and hopeless and all rapists. One of the male, beer-guzzling, shit-spouting friends said that he would bomb India and annihilate it if he could. I wanted to make a scathing, cutting remark about how tiny his prehistoric brain was, but took into account other factors such as the remaining two days that I would have to spend with him. I would rather not come across as unpleasant and uneducated, but apparently he has no such qualms. He also hit on a twenty-one years old girl that I'll mention later.
His wife is a vapid, shallow woman who is forty to fifty years old. She's passably pretty, but does not realise that her head appears to be completely empty of all considerations except being pretty, acting young, and pretending to be cool. "Ooo, I want to get a tattoo!" - upon seeing someone get tattooed in a shop. "I don't think you should get a tattoo here because the needles might not be sterilised and then bad things happen." - everyone else along with Common Sense.
They have one child who's like nine. She's nice but has no sense of simplicity or style. An okay kid.
And there's another woman, who's also nearing fifty. Nothing much to say about her, except vaguely annoying in some vaguely indiscernible manner. Not one for respecting personal space.
She has two daughters. One who's twenty-one, quite pretty, with awesome fashion sense. She's kind of a hipster and brought along a canon camera... And didn't do much with it. She seems nice. She's in a polytechnic I think. Tends to get disgustingly cutesy-whiny when trying to bargain. She feels kind of off, though, and is also vaguely irritating in an unknown manner.
The second daughter is thirteen, and is a little bitch who is incapable of respecting personal boundaries, being polite, or obeying social norms. She's the kind of girl who demands that you - her hypothetical friend - buys her sweets with your money because she wants sweets. She has no idea how proper friendship works and will demand five sweets in return for giving you two. She's the kind of girl who will snatch your iPad away and use it whenever she wants, even though she has her own iPad and you clearly want to use your iPad yourself. She's cute but pretentious. Doesn't have much fashion style - kiddy shirt with lacy pants?????!!! A brat. Scrupulously petty... And I... Am sharing a room with her.
And then there's my dad, who willingly pays for extortion... Like a third-rate video of him and my brother on the go-kart track which goes for 800 bahts apparently but was cut down to 500 and then quickly cut down to 300 which is not cheap by any means. Because it's a shitty CD. Not even ten minutes. He's lost his brain just because they put a couple more zeros behind the number. We don't have money to spare. He has two children who needs to go to university and he's lost his fucking brain and is puking money everywhere. He also likes taking pictures of people even when they make it clear that the last thing they want to do is to take a picture and that taking a picture of them will make them really irritated and angry. Read: me. (Okay, sorry, the last part was just because he's a doting daddy. Without much common sense sometimes. The last part about pictures was just me griping needlessly.)
My mother has started speaking in a high, giggly voice that is utterly ridiculous and stupid. It's fake and nauseating, and she doesn't notice anything. If she had a brain, it would shrivel and commit suicide each time she opened her mouth. Is there anyone here who doesn't find meaningless high-pitched giggly laughter irritating as fuck? Get the fuck off my blog. If you're trying to fake laughter then try a bit harder. That kind of giggly stupid high-school girly laughter will get you a slap from me IRL.
So there's also my brother, who throws tantrums for simple things and refuses to eat just because and ends up having to eat instant ramen in his room at night. He's also seven years old. Which means that my parents have to suffer along with him, and by default I have to suffer as well. In fact he ruined many days and spoiled many things and made my dad pay a lot of compensation money.
This is a ridiculous holiday and they are all ridiculous messy and unorganized and the sun really actually burns. (Sorry, I'm kind of OCD sometimes. Messy, unorganized things gives me headaches. I have to physically stop myself from reaching out and rearranging other people's belongings.)
You think I'm exaggerating the unpleasantness of them. You're wrong. I always thought that only television shows were this dramatic and stereotypical, but stereotypes have to come from somewhere. In fact, I have a series of perfect templates for unlikable characters now. My characterization is going to shoot off the chart in terms of realism.
I'm never going on holiday with such unthinking people again. They couldn't even find the luggage belt when they arrived. This is like a competition to see who can be the most brainless person.
Next time I'm going overseas, I'm going with friends. Friends are the family that you choose, right? If a bitch stabs you, you can cut her out of your chosen family. If your mother stabs you she's still your goddamn mother. You also share a lot more interests and viewpoints with your friends. Holidays are meant to be enjoyable. Go with friends. Family trips just make you tired when you're the eldest daughter.
P.S. Phuket tips - if you're planning on going:
If you're going to Phuket, being a ton of strong sunblock or prepare to turn purple. I'm not kidding. Also bring a bit of insect repellent. Wear slippers. Apply sunblock on feet - I AM NOT KIDDING.
APPLY SUNBLOCK EVERYWHERE.
There are lots of family marts and seven-elevens around, so if you can't get used to the food, you won't starve. The food in those shops are pretty cheap, comparatively.
...um... When you take taxis, people sometimes try to cheat you of money, so keep in mind that for a party of around five, for a two to five (or ten??) minute ride, it's about 200 bahts. Also ALWAYS bargain with shop people, the prices are usually exorbitantly high because there are (probably) more tourists than locals there.
Oh and if you go the the beach, the seats cost money. Like, 100 bahts, more or less.
Anyway everything costs money, and everything is over-commercialized.
ALSO SUNBLOCK. Seriously. Especially your shoulders. The sun there is brutal, and I thought I lived in a place with serious sun. Two hours in the sun makes you red. Any more and your skin starts peeling. Actually, the skin on my shoulders is peeling a bit, and I hardly even did anything in the sun. I'm also two shades darker. And a shade redder.
...um... I'm kind of tired, I didn't sleep until two or three in the morning for the entire week.
13 March 2013
perks of being a wallflower: why i didn't like the book
Objectively speaking, it's a pretty good book. Nothing spectacular, but not bad either. As far as complete experiences go, it was an okay one. It was pretty coherent and cohesive, self-contained, etc. There's nothing much to criticize if you're going at it from an objective point of view, but once you get personal, you either hate it or love it.
And I hated it. Or rather I would have hated it, but I took into account how good an emotional experience it was, and toned down my dislike accordingly.
Why didn't I like it? Most people did. They also raved about the movie, but I suspect that if I watched the movie I wouldn't have enjoyed it much either.
The point was, the narrator was radically different from any narrator that I've ever read. The first thing I did was to look up when it was published, and it turned out to be 1999, and I thought "aha, this explains a lot", because the narrator was horrifyingly naive and innocent. In fact, if you read the book, you'll find out that he finds out about what 'masturbation' is when he's fifteen. Plus everything in the book was outdated.
Also, he doesn't relate. To people. Throughout the book I thought that maybe the author was making a point, about how a normal person (the reader) would react to a person who was emotionally stunted. Because it seemed pretty consistent.
At first I was fed up with the narrator. He was such a kid. He was disturbingly naive. He couldn't relate to anyone even when it was as simple as breathing. He annoyed me on a personal level, because I especially detest people who are peacefully oblivious to the atmosphere.
Also his writing was strange, stilted, and awkward (okay I get it, I think he didn't use contractions) and I thought "he's fifteen and he's writing an informal letter". I mean, I compared him with myself. When I was fifteen I was practically an expert at writing things that flowed. I'm not saying that I was better than most people, because most people at fifteen are experts at writing things that flow. It is not difficult.
And that fit the pattern - normal people (you, the reader) often get frustrated at people who are in any way impaired at all.
I thought that the narrator must have some impairment. Yet the writing was ambiguous but suggestive, so it wasn't until (page 128/510 on the ebook) - "I used to play sports when I was little, and I was actually very good, but the problem was that it used to make me too aggressive, so the doctors told my mom I would have to stop" - that I figured out that he really did have a legit issue somewhere.
So then I actively tried to make myself tolerate his narrative. Whenever I read something that made me think "why the fuck can't he do the obvious thing?" or "why the fuck doesn't he get it?", I immediately told myself to back off, because he had a legit issue and I didn't exactly think the protagonist of The Fault in Our Stars was whiny. And if I could tolerate a physically disabled person, I should be able to tolerate a mentally disabled person.
So it didn't help. At all. He was every bit as irritating and unrelatable as ever. And I couldn't help but think that it was how a normal person would react in real life, too. Upon finding out about the impairment, the person tries to regulate his annoyance, but it doesn't help much.
The narrator was just so different. He was spacey and participated in dangerous behaviour and didn't worry about his future or about money even though he admits that his family isn't rich. It really says a lot about what ten years or so can do to us. Nowadays every kid with middle-class parents worries about money. Because there aren't any second chances, and if you make the wrong choice now you might starve to death later because no one cares about whether you live or die.
There are basically different spheres of society that people live in. And the experiences are radically different, and there's no way to relate unless you've experienced it. And in the circle I live in, no kid would ever consider taking weed or LSD or even smoking. They might think about it or talk about it but in the end no one wants to endanger their future.
That's how different my life is from the narrator. I am completely unable to relate on an emotional or empathetic level. Intellectually I understand everything, but emotionally it's only so much wet cotton wool. I did not like the book. There was something mildly off-putting about it, and throughout the reading I kept getting sucked into the narrator's spacey narrative, and I started feeling spacey and asperger's-like, and I did not like that feeling.
And then [SPOILER] in the end I find out that he's apparently really fucking smart even though he has great gigantic problems with relating to humans and then I just conclude that he probably has asperger's and that I didn't like him because he was too different from me. The end.
edit 30/11/15: His risk-taking behaviour was incongruous with what I know about asperger's. So I did a search and turns out he's canonically depressed, with hints of PTSD. I still... don't really get it. None of the canon explanations actually explain his weird way of writing, oddly naive manner, inability to connect, and rick-taking activities. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.
But objectively speaking it was a pretty good book.
Then again I think every book I've read is a pretty good book, because the effort put into making it a book that sells makes it pretty good. Any book by default garners a rating of three from me. Four is rare. Five is one out of every hundred.
And this book gets a three.
But I do have to repeat. It's not that this is an actively bad book. It's just that I don't actively like it. And it makes a bit of difference.
edit 30/11/15: now that I think back, the book was a bit boring. I couldn't wait to end it. That's not a good sign. It still gets a three, but I think that nowadays there are few teenagers who could connect with the book in a meaningful way.
(I finished the book in an hour or a bit more. How long did you take?)
And I hated it. Or rather I would have hated it, but I took into account how good an emotional experience it was, and toned down my dislike accordingly.
Why didn't I like it? Most people did. They also raved about the movie, but I suspect that if I watched the movie I wouldn't have enjoyed it much either.
The point was, the narrator was radically different from any narrator that I've ever read. The first thing I did was to look up when it was published, and it turned out to be 1999, and I thought "aha, this explains a lot", because the narrator was horrifyingly naive and innocent. In fact, if you read the book, you'll find out that he finds out about what 'masturbation' is when he's fifteen. Plus everything in the book was outdated.
Also, he doesn't relate. To people. Throughout the book I thought that maybe the author was making a point, about how a normal person (the reader) would react to a person who was emotionally stunted. Because it seemed pretty consistent.
At first I was fed up with the narrator. He was such a kid. He was disturbingly naive. He couldn't relate to anyone even when it was as simple as breathing. He annoyed me on a personal level, because I especially detest people who are peacefully oblivious to the atmosphere.
Also his writing was strange, stilted, and awkward (okay I get it, I think he didn't use contractions) and I thought "he's fifteen and he's writing an informal letter". I mean, I compared him with myself. When I was fifteen I was practically an expert at writing things that flowed. I'm not saying that I was better than most people, because most people at fifteen are experts at writing things that flow. It is not difficult.
And that fit the pattern - normal people (you, the reader) often get frustrated at people who are in any way impaired at all.
I thought that the narrator must have some impairment. Yet the writing was ambiguous but suggestive, so it wasn't until (page 128/510 on the ebook) - "I used to play sports when I was little, and I was actually very good, but the problem was that it used to make me too aggressive, so the doctors told my mom I would have to stop" - that I figured out that he really did have a legit issue somewhere.
So then I actively tried to make myself tolerate his narrative. Whenever I read something that made me think "why the fuck can't he do the obvious thing?" or "why the fuck doesn't he get it?", I immediately told myself to back off, because he had a legit issue and I didn't exactly think the protagonist of The Fault in Our Stars was whiny. And if I could tolerate a physically disabled person, I should be able to tolerate a mentally disabled person.
So it didn't help. At all. He was every bit as irritating and unrelatable as ever. And I couldn't help but think that it was how a normal person would react in real life, too. Upon finding out about the impairment, the person tries to regulate his annoyance, but it doesn't help much.
The narrator was just so different. He was spacey and participated in dangerous behaviour and didn't worry about his future or about money even though he admits that his family isn't rich. It really says a lot about what ten years or so can do to us. Nowadays every kid with middle-class parents worries about money. Because there aren't any second chances, and if you make the wrong choice now you might starve to death later because no one cares about whether you live or die.
There are basically different spheres of society that people live in. And the experiences are radically different, and there's no way to relate unless you've experienced it. And in the circle I live in, no kid would ever consider taking weed or LSD or even smoking. They might think about it or talk about it but in the end no one wants to endanger their future.
That's how different my life is from the narrator. I am completely unable to relate on an emotional or empathetic level. Intellectually I understand everything, but emotionally it's only so much wet cotton wool. I did not like the book. There was something mildly off-putting about it, and throughout the reading I kept getting sucked into the narrator's spacey narrative, and I started feeling spacey and asperger's-like, and I did not like that feeling.
And then [SPOILER] in the end I find out that he's apparently really fucking smart even though he has great gigantic problems with relating to humans and then I just conclude that he probably has asperger's and that I didn't like him because he was too different from me. The end.
edit 30/11/15: His risk-taking behaviour was incongruous with what I know about asperger's. So I did a search and turns out he's canonically depressed, with hints of PTSD. I still... don't really get it. None of the canon explanations actually explain his weird way of writing, oddly naive manner, inability to connect, and rick-taking activities. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.
But objectively speaking it was a pretty good book.
Then again I think every book I've read is a pretty good book, because the effort put into making it a book that sells makes it pretty good. Any book by default garners a rating of three from me. Four is rare. Five is one out of every hundred.
And this book gets a three.
But I do have to repeat. It's not that this is an actively bad book. It's just that I don't actively like it. And it makes a bit of difference.
edit 30/11/15: now that I think back, the book was a bit boring. I couldn't wait to end it. That's not a good sign. It still gets a three, but I think that nowadays there are few teenagers who could connect with the book in a meaningful way.
(I finished the book in an hour or a bit more. How long did you take?)
12 March 2013
open letter to a classmate who is a paragon of common sense
A.k.a. I hate everyone and wish to be unborn.
Three months into the school year and your brain stops working. Sounds about right, doesn't it? Yeah, I thought so. Unfortunately this also means that you cease to stop thinking about anything whatsoever, and start laying blame on anything that you can conceivably blame. Like me.
If you don't tell someone anything, and then proceeds to blame that someone for being a lazy asshole, thus branding that person an incorrigible assfuck... Makes sense? Yeah, I thought so. That's how the real world works. I understand, you're just preparing for your adult life, in which common sense gets trampled upon and desecrated beyond imagination.
I feel dirty. Experiencing this type of convoluted logic makes me feel like I have unlimited access to the internet 24/7. Unlimited meaning unrestricted access to gore and porn and also animal porn.
Well, classmate, thank you for easing me into the real world, by making clear your unwillingness to utilise your doubtless flawless set of Common Sense, and by labeling everyone and complaining about everything and being bloody inconsistent and generally being unpleasant to talk to.
I get it. You're an adult now. You're entitled to be an idiotic assfuck who has a clusterfuck of unpleasantness permanently stitched onto your brain patterns. I'm still an idealistic kid who thinks that maybe you should feign pleasantness if only to stop everyone from wanting to rip out their hair the moment they see you.
School is such an educational experience.
Three months into the school year and your brain stops working. Sounds about right, doesn't it? Yeah, I thought so. Unfortunately this also means that you cease to stop thinking about anything whatsoever, and start laying blame on anything that you can conceivably blame. Like me.
If you don't tell someone anything, and then proceeds to blame that someone for being a lazy asshole, thus branding that person an incorrigible assfuck... Makes sense? Yeah, I thought so. That's how the real world works. I understand, you're just preparing for your adult life, in which common sense gets trampled upon and desecrated beyond imagination.
I feel dirty. Experiencing this type of convoluted logic makes me feel like I have unlimited access to the internet 24/7. Unlimited meaning unrestricted access to gore and porn and also animal porn.
Well, classmate, thank you for easing me into the real world, by making clear your unwillingness to utilise your doubtless flawless set of Common Sense, and by labeling everyone and complaining about everything and being bloody inconsistent and generally being unpleasant to talk to.
I get it. You're an adult now. You're entitled to be an idiotic assfuck who has a clusterfuck of unpleasantness permanently stitched onto your brain patterns. I'm still an idealistic kid who thinks that maybe you should feign pleasantness if only to stop everyone from wanting to rip out their hair the moment they see you.
School is such an educational experience.
6 March 2013
oh yes i suppose this needs a title. hp slashfic.
Harry Potter fanfiction. I don't know where the plot was going, and I don't even know if this has a plot at all. Probably Harry/Draco or Voldemort/Harry, if anyone fancies a little LVHP later on. Anyway, AU fics. Yay. About a thousand eight hundred words.
---
Half-whispered sounds in the dark.
"Father?"
"Quiet, Draco."
---
In a little town in Surrey, England, the wizarding world's saviour grew up. He was three when Vernon Dursley first hit him, and he was seven when he first understood that it was called domestic violence and that it was wrong.
By that point, he didn't see any way to stop it.
"Get the mail, boy," Vernon grunted, heaping more pancakes onto his plate.
"Yes, Uncle," the boy replied, slipping off his chair and darting into the hallway. Spending time with the family was tense. Difficult. He never knew when Uncle Vernon would get angry - he never knew when Uncle Vernon would suddenly decide that the good for nothing orphan needed another beating.
He was nine. Stick-thin and all sharp bones. His skin was an unhealthy shade of white striped with red. One eye was swollen shut and the other was disproportionately large in his skinny face.
Each day he prayed that Uncle Vernon would forget about his existence.
---
"Your son is so well-behaved and neat. Why, my boy - he's always running around and spilling things on himself! You must be so proud," some socialite said while patting Narcissa Malfoy's arm.
"He'll do you proud," said another woman coldly, her fingers toying with her necklace of pearls.
Narcissa was sure that both women were childless. She gave them both a placating smile. "You flatter me, Draco is merely obedient by nature." She glanced at her husband and child - Lucius tall and imposing, Draco standing straight and expressionless beside him. "My son is hardly as angelic as you make him out to be. Why, just last week..."
But as she turned away, her smile slipped a little, froze a little. A meaningless action of the flesh, disconnected from any emotions. She was a trophy wife. She had no wish to know about the actions of her husband or child, as long as her reputation was unaffected.
Yet not wanting to know was not the same as not knowing. Narcissa Malfoy knew about everything that happened in the manor. Narcissa Malfoy knew exactly why her husband's hand tightened its grip on her son's shoulder. She knew exactly why her son paled.
But Narcissa Malfoy was not a charitable woman.
---
Harry Potter turned ten years old in the darkness of the cupboard under the stairs. All he had for company was the small rat that he had managed to tease out from the holes in the wall with bits of food over the years. His stomach grumbled in hunger - a sort of protesting, unhappy sound - but he was used to it. He didn't react.
He was so tired. He had spent the day hanging up wet laundry for his aunt, and then taking it all down again when they had dried. It was hard work, and his boney arms ached from the exertion. Uncle Vernon's clothes had been especially heavy.
All he had eaten all day was two sandwiches - one in the morning, put together with the leftover vegetables that Vernon and Dudley didn't like to eat, and one more at four in the afternoon, when Petunia threw out the expired foods and greens. Perhaps he could sneak out to get an apple or two, but he wasn't sure that he had enough energy for it.
The rat under his cold fingertips make a soft screeching noise. He stroked its fur again, hardly feeling anything with his calloused hands. It made another sound.
"Sorry," he whispered to the rat. He thought that maybe he had poked it, it felt all the same to him.
He licked his lips. They were peeling. He made a note to drink more water when he could.
---
Draco had learned not to make any sounds when his father's silhouette appeared in the doorway. It didn't matter, not really, because every room in the manor was soundproofed, but his father seemed to like him being quiet.
"Turn over," came the harsh whisper, and then a soft finger made its way down his back, over the thin, raised scars, and down. He wanted to shiver but didn't dare. He could hardly breathe. He didn't know whether he was breathing.
"Stop that, Draco," his father said, annoyed. Oh. He was trembling after all. He clenched his fists and tried not to move. Be a statue, he told himself, digging his nails deeper into his palms. A statue. Don't move. Father doesn't like it when you move.
"How many times have I told you? You'll only hurt yourself this way." Shit. Maybe father was angry.
"S-sorry," he bit out through his teeth. He had stress issues. He tended to grind his teeth and bite down really hard when he was scared and nervous or stressed. It made his jaw ache.
"No matter."
And then Draco couldn't tell if he was breathing. It was quiet, so silent, but it felt like the pain was rebounding off the walls in his heads. Rebounding and magnifying.
He was fucking terrified. He didn't know what was up or down. He couldn't feel the strong fingers gripping his hips. His feet were cold. He tried not to cry.
And then it was over.
He let out a breath that he didn't even know he had been holding, but it came out uneven and stinking of fear. He curled in on himself as his father left, wrapping his childish fingers around his arms and hugging himself to sleep.
He was still trembling.
---
Harry Potter turned eleven in the darkness of the cupboard under the stairs. The rat had died a few weeks after his tenth birthday, and he had no crumbs to spare to lure another companion from the walls. He was hungry all the time. He was so hungry. He thought that maybe if the rat hadn't died, then he might have been tempted to eat it.
He was thinner than ever. His skin had a grey tinge to it now, even though he sometimes did weeding in the garden, under the sun. Weeding was a good chore, because it meant that he could drink from the hose as much as he wanted and Petunia didn't care as long as the weeds were gone. Sometimes he'd get more food too, because Petunia said that she couldn't stand the disgusting sight of his ribs.
Life was better, he thought. Not good, but better. Even Uncle Vernon didn't beat him much now, not after the time when he was pushed down the stairs and broke three ribs, his left leg, fractured his ankle, and got a concussion. It wasn't too bad, because his leg didn't heal for a month and he was allowed to do fewer chores. The family didn't like to mention that, though.
But as he sat in his cupboard, he wondered about the future. Was he to be starved and locked away for ten years, and ten more years? He knew that the next day would be a repetition of the previous day. He knew that it was useless to daydream and ask stupid questions. But he was too hungry to sleep, and in five more hours he would have to get up and make breakfast for the Dursleys.
Harry Potter hoped that he could steal a scrambled egg or two without Uncle Vernon noticing.
---
"You'll be going to Hogwarts soon, Draco," Lucius Malfoy said while circling his son slowly. His sharp eyes examined his son's clothes for any disarray, any stain. Finding none, he continued. "Don't bring shame onto the family."
A nod from his obedient son.
"I warned you," he breathed. "Eleven years down the drain, I see."
"No, father. I'm sorry, father. I won't make that mistake again." Draco's jaw was beginning to freeze up. It was making it hard for him to speak. He should have known better than to reply with a nod. He should have said 'I understand, father' as he did every other day. He was already bringing shame upon the family.
"I'm sorry, father," he repeated softly, just in case.
"I expect a letter informing me of your... acceptance into Slytherin." Lucius Malfoy's eyes narrowed, and he waited for a barely audible 'yes, father' from his son before striding away.
---
There was the electric bill, the phone bill, and a letter addressed to Mr. H. Potter.
---
"I can't go," Harry half-gasped, half-sobbed to the giant. "Please, don't make me go, Uncle Vernon will kill me."
"Y-you hear that, imbecile? The boy doesn't want to go!" Vernon's aim wasn't as steady as he'd always claimed, and there were beads of sweat on his nose. Dudley tried to hide behind his father, but he was even wider than Vernon by that point.
"Nonsense, 'arry! O'course you want 'ta go, that's where yer parents got their schooling!" Hagrid, as he had introduced himself, wasn't taking no for an answer.
"I can't pay for it," Harry said desperately, "so I definitely can't go."
"What are yer on about? Yer parents paid for 'ogwarts the day yer were born!"
Harry made a noise of frustration and tried again. "It's too far from my relatives! I-I'll be homesick!"
"Yer'll be all right, 'arry, there are tons of holidays!" Hagrid patted him on the back, and he nearly fell over. "So it's settled, we're setting off tomorrow!" He then proceeded to fit himself into the sofa and grin at Dursley. Harry heard the wood crack.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen, please," he begged. He didn't want to be shot. He'd been shot, once, and it had been far more painful than any beating he had ever received. "Please," he added, voice faltering.
Vernon hesitated for a moment, before glaring at Harry and the giant. "I'll have no part in this!" he bellowed, and stomped upstairs with Dudley at his heels.
There was silence for a while, and Harry began wringing his hands. He'd be punished. He wouldn't be allowed food for two weeks, and Uncle Vernon would beat him again. Dudley would beat him. Maybe Aunt Petunia would beat him too.
He began breathing faster and faster, and somehow there was never enough oxygen, and he was clenching his teeth, and there wasn't enough air, and the edges of his vision began to go dark.
---
"So you're Harry Potter," the blonde boy said, sneering at how his robes hung off his frame.
"Yes," Harry replied nervously, wanting to bite his lip but not quite daring to.
"My name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, and you'll soon find that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You wouldn't want to go around with the wrong sort. I can help you with that." He stuck out his hand.
"It's nice to meet you, Draco," Harry said, and stuck out his own hand, but he hadn't eaten anything since the previous morning and swayed before collapsing senseless onto the floor of the train compartment.
---
---
Half-whispered sounds in the dark.
"Father?"
"Quiet, Draco."
---
In a little town in Surrey, England, the wizarding world's saviour grew up. He was three when Vernon Dursley first hit him, and he was seven when he first understood that it was called domestic violence and that it was wrong.
By that point, he didn't see any way to stop it.
"Get the mail, boy," Vernon grunted, heaping more pancakes onto his plate.
"Yes, Uncle," the boy replied, slipping off his chair and darting into the hallway. Spending time with the family was tense. Difficult. He never knew when Uncle Vernon would get angry - he never knew when Uncle Vernon would suddenly decide that the good for nothing orphan needed another beating.
He was nine. Stick-thin and all sharp bones. His skin was an unhealthy shade of white striped with red. One eye was swollen shut and the other was disproportionately large in his skinny face.
Each day he prayed that Uncle Vernon would forget about his existence.
---
"Your son is so well-behaved and neat. Why, my boy - he's always running around and spilling things on himself! You must be so proud," some socialite said while patting Narcissa Malfoy's arm.
"He'll do you proud," said another woman coldly, her fingers toying with her necklace of pearls.
Narcissa was sure that both women were childless. She gave them both a placating smile. "You flatter me, Draco is merely obedient by nature." She glanced at her husband and child - Lucius tall and imposing, Draco standing straight and expressionless beside him. "My son is hardly as angelic as you make him out to be. Why, just last week..."
But as she turned away, her smile slipped a little, froze a little. A meaningless action of the flesh, disconnected from any emotions. She was a trophy wife. She had no wish to know about the actions of her husband or child, as long as her reputation was unaffected.
Yet not wanting to know was not the same as not knowing. Narcissa Malfoy knew about everything that happened in the manor. Narcissa Malfoy knew exactly why her husband's hand tightened its grip on her son's shoulder. She knew exactly why her son paled.
But Narcissa Malfoy was not a charitable woman.
---
Harry Potter turned ten years old in the darkness of the cupboard under the stairs. All he had for company was the small rat that he had managed to tease out from the holes in the wall with bits of food over the years. His stomach grumbled in hunger - a sort of protesting, unhappy sound - but he was used to it. He didn't react.
He was so tired. He had spent the day hanging up wet laundry for his aunt, and then taking it all down again when they had dried. It was hard work, and his boney arms ached from the exertion. Uncle Vernon's clothes had been especially heavy.
All he had eaten all day was two sandwiches - one in the morning, put together with the leftover vegetables that Vernon and Dudley didn't like to eat, and one more at four in the afternoon, when Petunia threw out the expired foods and greens. Perhaps he could sneak out to get an apple or two, but he wasn't sure that he had enough energy for it.
The rat under his cold fingertips make a soft screeching noise. He stroked its fur again, hardly feeling anything with his calloused hands. It made another sound.
"Sorry," he whispered to the rat. He thought that maybe he had poked it, it felt all the same to him.
He licked his lips. They were peeling. He made a note to drink more water when he could.
---
Draco had learned not to make any sounds when his father's silhouette appeared in the doorway. It didn't matter, not really, because every room in the manor was soundproofed, but his father seemed to like him being quiet.
"Turn over," came the harsh whisper, and then a soft finger made its way down his back, over the thin, raised scars, and down. He wanted to shiver but didn't dare. He could hardly breathe. He didn't know whether he was breathing.
"Stop that, Draco," his father said, annoyed. Oh. He was trembling after all. He clenched his fists and tried not to move. Be a statue, he told himself, digging his nails deeper into his palms. A statue. Don't move. Father doesn't like it when you move.
"How many times have I told you? You'll only hurt yourself this way." Shit. Maybe father was angry.
"S-sorry," he bit out through his teeth. He had stress issues. He tended to grind his teeth and bite down really hard when he was scared and nervous or stressed. It made his jaw ache.
"No matter."
And then Draco couldn't tell if he was breathing. It was quiet, so silent, but it felt like the pain was rebounding off the walls in his heads. Rebounding and magnifying.
He was fucking terrified. He didn't know what was up or down. He couldn't feel the strong fingers gripping his hips. His feet were cold. He tried not to cry.
And then it was over.
He let out a breath that he didn't even know he had been holding, but it came out uneven and stinking of fear. He curled in on himself as his father left, wrapping his childish fingers around his arms and hugging himself to sleep.
He was still trembling.
---
Harry Potter turned eleven in the darkness of the cupboard under the stairs. The rat had died a few weeks after his tenth birthday, and he had no crumbs to spare to lure another companion from the walls. He was hungry all the time. He was so hungry. He thought that maybe if the rat hadn't died, then he might have been tempted to eat it.
He was thinner than ever. His skin had a grey tinge to it now, even though he sometimes did weeding in the garden, under the sun. Weeding was a good chore, because it meant that he could drink from the hose as much as he wanted and Petunia didn't care as long as the weeds were gone. Sometimes he'd get more food too, because Petunia said that she couldn't stand the disgusting sight of his ribs.
Life was better, he thought. Not good, but better. Even Uncle Vernon didn't beat him much now, not after the time when he was pushed down the stairs and broke three ribs, his left leg, fractured his ankle, and got a concussion. It wasn't too bad, because his leg didn't heal for a month and he was allowed to do fewer chores. The family didn't like to mention that, though.
But as he sat in his cupboard, he wondered about the future. Was he to be starved and locked away for ten years, and ten more years? He knew that the next day would be a repetition of the previous day. He knew that it was useless to daydream and ask stupid questions. But he was too hungry to sleep, and in five more hours he would have to get up and make breakfast for the Dursleys.
Harry Potter hoped that he could steal a scrambled egg or two without Uncle Vernon noticing.
---
"You'll be going to Hogwarts soon, Draco," Lucius Malfoy said while circling his son slowly. His sharp eyes examined his son's clothes for any disarray, any stain. Finding none, he continued. "Don't bring shame onto the family."
A nod from his obedient son.
"I warned you," he breathed. "Eleven years down the drain, I see."
"No, father. I'm sorry, father. I won't make that mistake again." Draco's jaw was beginning to freeze up. It was making it hard for him to speak. He should have known better than to reply with a nod. He should have said 'I understand, father' as he did every other day. He was already bringing shame upon the family.
"I'm sorry, father," he repeated softly, just in case.
"I expect a letter informing me of your... acceptance into Slytherin." Lucius Malfoy's eyes narrowed, and he waited for a barely audible 'yes, father' from his son before striding away.
---
There was the electric bill, the phone bill, and a letter addressed to Mr. H. Potter.
---
"I can't go," Harry half-gasped, half-sobbed to the giant. "Please, don't make me go, Uncle Vernon will kill me."
"Y-you hear that, imbecile? The boy doesn't want to go!" Vernon's aim wasn't as steady as he'd always claimed, and there were beads of sweat on his nose. Dudley tried to hide behind his father, but he was even wider than Vernon by that point.
"Nonsense, 'arry! O'course you want 'ta go, that's where yer parents got their schooling!" Hagrid, as he had introduced himself, wasn't taking no for an answer.
"I can't pay for it," Harry said desperately, "so I definitely can't go."
"What are yer on about? Yer parents paid for 'ogwarts the day yer were born!"
Harry made a noise of frustration and tried again. "It's too far from my relatives! I-I'll be homesick!"
"Yer'll be all right, 'arry, there are tons of holidays!" Hagrid patted him on the back, and he nearly fell over. "So it's settled, we're setting off tomorrow!" He then proceeded to fit himself into the sofa and grin at Dursley. Harry heard the wood crack.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen, please," he begged. He didn't want to be shot. He'd been shot, once, and it had been far more painful than any beating he had ever received. "Please," he added, voice faltering.
Vernon hesitated for a moment, before glaring at Harry and the giant. "I'll have no part in this!" he bellowed, and stomped upstairs with Dudley at his heels.
There was silence for a while, and Harry began wringing his hands. He'd be punished. He wouldn't be allowed food for two weeks, and Uncle Vernon would beat him again. Dudley would beat him. Maybe Aunt Petunia would beat him too.
He began breathing faster and faster, and somehow there was never enough oxygen, and he was clenching his teeth, and there wasn't enough air, and the edges of his vision began to go dark.
---
"So you're Harry Potter," the blonde boy said, sneering at how his robes hung off his frame.
"Yes," Harry replied nervously, wanting to bite his lip but not quite daring to.
"My name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, and you'll soon find that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You wouldn't want to go around with the wrong sort. I can help you with that." He stuck out his hand.
"It's nice to meet you, Draco," Harry said, and stuck out his own hand, but he hadn't eaten anything since the previous morning and swayed before collapsing senseless onto the floor of the train compartment.
---
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