So Maudlin!
I found a limit to my B-list appreciation: books. It must be a testimony to how much more I study books than film or music, because while I can overlook lack of quality in the latter two (as long as it's entertaining), I can't do the same for the former.*
Oh yes, I'm talking about Bram Stoker's Dracula, which I finished last night.
1. If I thought the last two pages were a "moralizing letdown," I had no idea what I was in for. The entire book was a veritable fire and brimstone sermon - I didn't like it in church, and I certainly don't need it from dime novel! So much God, schmod, holy, schmoly. Very Victorian, too: the men are brave, the women pure.
2. Which brings me to my second beef: all the characters seem to do the whole time is praise each other for being such excellent friends with such excellent virtues; how good God is to provide such fine friends, blah blah blah.
3. Whenever the author is not spilling ink about friendship and virtue, he's spilling ink about BOXES OF DIRT. No joke. How much can you possibly write about a box of dirt? It's almost as if the genesis of the project came from a dare, like one of his friends said to him (after Stoker had bragged about how he can make anything interesting): "Hey Bram, I bet you couldn't write an interesting book about...say, a box of dirt." And Bram tried to prove that guy wrong.
* And yet, I must be extra-picky about my books, because I have limited appreciation for the fine-quality works that are NOT entertaining (like say, Waiting for Godot).
Oh yes, I'm talking about Bram Stoker's Dracula, which I finished last night.
1. If I thought the last two pages were a "moralizing letdown," I had no idea what I was in for. The entire book was a veritable fire and brimstone sermon - I didn't like it in church, and I certainly don't need it from dime novel! So much God, schmod, holy, schmoly. Very Victorian, too: the men are brave, the women pure.
2. Which brings me to my second beef: all the characters seem to do the whole time is praise each other for being such excellent friends with such excellent virtues; how good God is to provide such fine friends, blah blah blah.
3. Whenever the author is not spilling ink about friendship and virtue, he's spilling ink about BOXES OF DIRT. No joke. How much can you possibly write about a box of dirt? It's almost as if the genesis of the project came from a dare, like one of his friends said to him (after Stoker had bragged about how he can make anything interesting): "Hey Bram, I bet you couldn't write an interesting book about...say, a box of dirt." And Bram tried to prove that guy wrong.
* And yet, I must be extra-picky about my books, because I have limited appreciation for the fine-quality works that are NOT entertaining (like say, Waiting for Godot).
posted by Rex at 2:44 PM
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