A Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides
I remember sitting in classrooms through the years and often times feeling completely in the dark, not having a clue as to what the professor was going on about. One time in particular is burned in my memory. I was taking a class where an entire lecture centered around one word: misogynist. Well, I had no idea what that word meant, (and in my defense it was a class focused on medieval poetry, which, in my mind, is kind of a cruel and inhumane prerequisite. Furthermore, in my humble opinion the only tolerable poetry is the kind set to music, preferably with a drum solo somewhere in there, thank you), and I spent the entire class trying to figure out what in the world this guy was yammering on about, while everyone else seemingly understood with the noddings of the heads and of course that one kid in class who just has to have a ridiculously insightful comment, which I didn’t latch onto as well, which further drove home my ineptitude. So I sat there in silence, too embarrassed to raise my hand and ask the meaning, wondering if I was completely alone in my academic short comings.
I’d like to say this feeling of inadequacy in comparison with those around me has faded since my younger days, but alas, it is not so. A good example of this would be my first, and every year after, mothering stint I’ve been involved in. At first, I thought I might collapse under the weight of the pressure. With the having of a child, a feeling of unavoidable guilt quickly becomes a mainstay feature in the hollows of your soul. Guilt about things I wasn’t doing right, wasn’t doing at all, or was going to do in the future that would inevitable be the ruin of my offspring, and subsequently probably be the downfall of a nation at some point. I was getting about 1.5 hours of consecutive sleep a day, I was frazzled, rarely showered, and that baby WOULD JUST NOT STOP CRYING! I could do nothing to soothe her and because all the other young mothers around me seemed to have everything together, I was convinced, once again, that I was the one falling short. And that just made it worse. It wasn’t until years later, when I started really talking to my close friends, that stories of the pressure felt, depression, inadequacy, and the feeling that they alone were the ones not keeping up, not daring to admit they were struggling for fear of appearing weak, began to emerge. And I couldn’t help but wonder, if we had all just admitted years before that our problems and fears existed, would we have been comforted? Would we have been shored up knowing we were not alone, that we were in good company in our inadequacies?
The memory of those times and many others through my life came flooding back while reading Jeffery Eugenides novel, The Marriage Plot. The book follows the lives of three college graduates, immersed in a love triangle as they embark into the world trying to find themselves and the path they are destined for as they deal with all sorts of unexpected and most times ill prepared for events of love, mental illness, friendship, marriage, and religion. Tolerance, understanding, acceptance and forgiveness weave through this tale as the characters find the strength to sacrifice for each other and in the end, sacrifice for themselves. I couldn’t help but wonder while reading this book, if the characters had shared their weaknesses, and trusted others with their flaws, would things have turned out differently? Would their lives have met less resistance and despair with the relief and support that can come with voicing our fears and our perceived shortcomings, while being honest about who we are as individuals?
I guess my thought is this: If we raise our hands and admit that we really don’t know everything, that we are not perfect, that we are struggling and we aren’t quite sure if the decisions we make and have made are the right ones, will it be worth it, if only maybe for that one other person in the world who sighs and is relieved that they are not the only one? Well, I’d like to think so.
Americans, all connected by one thing; a small floundering newspaper in Rome. Each character is defined by their position at the newspaper and the perfection that is required to work there, although the focus is the imperfections that surround their personal lives and the concessions they make for themselves, their lives, goals and relationships. Although you only get a glimpse into each life, it’s enough. You quickly realize the same perfectionism that is demanded in each character’s work atmosphere is not mirrored in their personal lives, which, seems to make it that much harder for them to accept. Rachman has a unique way of making you sympathize and personalize with each of his characters. Though I had little in common with any, I went away understanding and even respecting the decisions and lives of each in their search for personal happiness.
never gotten around to reading, Agatha Christie. Turns out she is literally the best selling author OF ALL TIME. She is the third most widely published after William Shakespeare and THE BIBLE. That’s insanity! Anyway, despite not knowing this impressive resume at the time, I proceeded to checkout Christie’s, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Wow, was I surprised at the ending. And I don’t get surprised by endings. You wanna know why? Because I watch a ton of CSI and Law and Order and I have read almost every Stephen King novel. That’s the kind of training that has made me nearly un-surpriseable (it’s a word). And I’ll tell you what else- Agatha wrote a real page turner. I couldn’t put the book down.
basically akin to my kids growing up watching Toy Story and Tangled and then expecting them to be impressed with the plot and graphics of Snow White. I mean of course, still today his stuff is impressive, but I imagine, as new things often are, it was pretty amazing in 1887. Sir Conan Doyle was a major founding father of the great mystery detective novel, (who of course was, I’m sure, influenced by Poe), and laid the groundwork for one of my most favorite genres- the mystery novel. But I’ll tell it straight. What I didn’t like about Holmes was, as a reader, you only got the basic story and all the detective work was already done, without the reader, and summed up concisely at the end. There was no way I could even try to solve the clues because I wasn’t given the same information that Holmes had. And that was frustrating, because just as I have perfected all my major karate skills from watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I’ve also honed my detective skills from picking up the subtle clues left to me by my favorite mystery novels and television shows. I’ll be watching Bones or Psych for instance, and some might say I’ll “annoyingly” tell you my predictions through constant commentary on character dialogue, body language, and plot details until I have solved the crime. It’s fun and enjoyable (for some more than others) and all part of the experience! The long and short is this; Christie allows you to participate, while Doyle, not so much.


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