I don't want to figure it out--yet

Knowing what's going to happen in a book, movie, or tv show is a fine, acquired art. I've been able to perfect that art over the years, and now reading or watching anything is a constant race with myself to know what's going to happen before I'm supposed to find out (thank you, years of Agatha Christie books).

Some of my favorite books and movies are the ones that I didn't figure out until everyone else did. Sure, like you figured out the whole Maximilian/Rebecca plot twist. And that seriously amazing scene in that movie where suddenly every single piece of everything makes sense (and if you think I just referenced Memento, I'm feeling unspeakable pain for you--I really hate that movie.)

Recently, the figuring stuff out has become a little boring. When you read classics, you already know the ending simply because you've had to have basic knowledge of the book previously. Movies clearly have been unable to come up with anything slightly convincing in the past few years. And you can barely get on any entertainment website without finding out what happened in your favorite TV show before you get a chance to watch it.

I finished Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go about two weeks ago. I had wanted to read it,especially before the movie came out--I can't abide movie book covers. The book was voted as best novel of 2005 by National Book Critic Circles Award and named as one of the top 10 books of the decade by TIME magazine.

I made it a point not to research anything about the book--I didn't want any hints about what was going to happen. I had three sentences to go on: 1. Children at a boarding school, and all is not what it seems. 2. By the guy who wrote The Remains of the Day. 3. It is slightly creepy and powerful with a twist ending.

Now, after reading the first sentence, you'd better have a pretty good idea about what is going on, or I've lost all my faith in your premonitions.

I settled down with the book and enjoyed it. My pre-book-reading premonitions were not exactly correct, but I quickly corrected them (we're talking 3rd chapter here), and had the twist safely figured out a few chapters later. Admittedly, my entire theory could have failed because I was building it off one sentence, but I had such comfort in the knowledge Ishiguro had of this world that I knew I could trust him to make that sentence be as important as it should be. He proved me right.

It was not my favorite book, by any means. I'm not even sure I'll read it again, but I did enjoy the chase. I enjoyed feeling like this book had fooled plenty of people before me, but it wasn't going to fool me. I felt as if I was a little kid again, reading a mystery novel while tucked under the covers, grasping to every word, eager to discover the motive, the weapon, and the killer, and the wonderful feeling when you discover you're right.

Besides all that--it was a pretty good book.

Note: if you are interested in reading the book, I do recommend the not-researching any part of it before you read. After I read it, I checked google, wikipedia, and amazon. Any self-respecting reader could piece the whole story together by just those tidbits that everyone else let creep out. But wouldn't you like to see if you could figure out what happened using only the author's words which are, I promise you, far more enjoyable then some book review on amazon. At least he has style--and prose.

I'm Leaving in a mini-van, don't know when I'll be back again

I'm leaving in about 20 minutes for my brother's wedding in Minnesota.

I feel slightly bad about this being my post for the week, but not bad enough to make myself stay up last night.

I will return in a few days, and I promise to make it worth your while although I've always found that a rather pathetic phrase. How much is actually worth your while? Is it worth your while if you're one of those people who does nothing constructive with their time? Or, is it worth your while only when you are being efficient?

There--now you have something to ponder and figure out for when I get back.

I apologize for the title, the slight grammarian that resides within would not allow me to say "on a mini-van."

America, Why?

I'm in US History class right now. Everyone knows there's nothing like a good, honest look at American history to make you not entirely proud of your country. I'm sure that's true in any country, but I'm American, and so I'm currently looking at my country's achievements and failings.

Throughout the class, I've been disturbed by much of what America has done. I am bothered by people, ideals, beliefs, actions, and billions of other things. I thought, then that I would tell you what I currently perceive as America's greatest failing. Prepare yourself.

Abatement
Achievement
Acknowledgement
Advancement
Advertisement
Agreement
Amazement
Amusement
Announcement
Appeasement
Arrangement
Atonement
Battlement
Bereavement
Commencement
Confinement
Disablement
Disagreement
Disbursement
Discouragement
Disenfranchisement
Disengagement
Disfigurement
Disgruntlement
Dismantlement
Disparagement
Displacement
Divorcement
Elopement
Embezzlement
Encouragement
Endorsement
Enforcement
Engagement
Engorgement
Enhancement
Enlargement
Entanglement
Enticement
Escapement
Estrangement
Excitement
Improvement
Incitement
Inducement
Infringement
Involvement
Management
Measurement
Mismanagement
Movement
Pavement
Placement
Procurement
Pronouncement
Puzzlement
Rearrangement
Refinement
Reimbursement
Reinforcement
Reinstatement
Replacement
Requirement
Resettlement
Retirement
Settlement
Statement
Underachievement
Understatement

So, fellow Americans, please excuse my regular error in the spelling of judgment as "judgement". I have never understood why American's chose to spell it without an e. I have just supplied a list in which all the words end in e and simply have -ment tacked on. There is no logical reason for American's to drop the e in judgement. None whatsoever.

At least Britain knows how to spell it.

Garage Sales

I don't really do garage sales.

This weekend, however, was our town's official "garage sale weekend." (one of my town's special eccentricities).

Philip, I, and a family friend loaded up around 9:30. We had the newspaper insert and cash. The insert supplied the addresses of specific garage sales with a few lines of what each was offering, and then the back of the insert had our town map, sectioned off for easy finding.

We spent about 3 hours going around. Philip was the helpful navigator; he steered us to the most profitable garages. I was the helpful parker. I parked in some beautiful ways several times.

I had a delightful time. I came away with 11 books, 1 game, an air pump, and 1 movie.

And I bought it all for just under 5 dollars.

My Liver a.k.a. My Semester

Prometheus is a cool dude. He saw a need: man had no way to remain warm. He rectified the need: he stole fire from the rest of the gods and gave it to the humans.
Zeus and the other gods were angry. Prometheus had just given a godlike-power to humans--who certainly didn't deserve it in the first place. So, Zeus retaliated by taking Prometheus, chaining him to a huge rock, and ordering an eagle to come eat Prometheus' liver--a pretty sick way to die. Problem was Prometheus didn't die. Since he was a god, his liver regrew every night, and the eagle would then start fresh each day. The eagle ate all of Prometheus' liver each and every day for a long time.

I felt like Prometheus this semester. Not the god part and not the bearing of special knowledge part, but the liver part.

This has been the single worst semester of my life. I took far too many credits, worked far too many hours, did far too many extra things, and did not see my family and friends anywhere near what I should have. When I arrived home after my last day, I have never been so exhausted. My brain was incapable of accepting the fact that I was done, incapable of believing that finally everything had been turned in, incapable of admitting to myself that I had no more responsibilities for this semester--ever. I think I am just now beginning to believe it.

I believe in education. You know that. I have ideals about what education is, how it should take place, what it should encompass, what it should accomplish, and what it should bring about. I felt as if many of my ideals about education this semester, while not dashed or destroyed, were severely dented.

I took three lit. classes this semester, which should immediately tell you how much reading I was doing. I'm also one of those annoying people who reads every single assignment. I also had a lit. class every day, so there was never any day in-between the pain. These were my main problems this semester. And because of those three lit. classes, I spent my days and nights alternating between living and dying.

It was in class when I died. People would say things--things you would not believe had you not been there. I would look helplessly around, at my classmates and at the teacher, and realize that no one saw any problem with what had just been said. People would share their views on what made this literature acceptable or not, and they would misstate, mistake, and misquote the author, the text, and anything else they could find to willfully misunderstand. I would want to raise my hand and say, "Stop. Everything you're saying is something I am fundamentally opposed to and here's why." But you can't do that to every person that shares a view--even if it's true. The eagle was merciless. Every single class period--do you know what that feels like?--every single class period I wanted to disagree (even for my contrary self, that's a lot) with someone, and every single class period, I instead learned to be silent.

It was when I read, that my liver regrew. It was when I was with those few people who thought the way I did about literature that I felt alive. It was when I wrote about literature that I breathed. It was when I sat down, opened the book, read, evaluated, and thought that I convinced myself to go the next day. It was when I found something I loved that I thought no one could possibly object to the beauty being conveyed.

But always, always, always the next day came and the slow, painful death would begin all over again.

It ended. It never felt like it would, but it did. In some legends, Hercules comes, shoots the eagle, and sets Prometheus free--I just took finals.

I don't every want to relive anything like what I went through again. Ever.
The worst part was, even when I convinced myself there was an end, that I was almost done, and that I would never think about this again, some horrible part of me would wonder if this was what life was going to be like. If these people were the people I was expected to talk about literature with for the rest of my life, and if I was always going to feel constantly held back.

If you know, don't tell me. I'm begging you--don't tell me.

Summer = Relief

I have missed you. Tons.

I am so glad to be back with you again.

And I, in an abject state of apology for my delinquent-writing behavior this semester, and because of those two other statements, promise to write in you once a week over the course of the summer.

This summer, we're going to have a slight problem--but nothing we can't overcome together. (Wasn't that beautiful?) I'm going to Argentina for about three weeks, which means I'll be out of the country, and will probably not have internet access. I'm going to try the post-when-set-on-a-timer-thing to take out that problem. But, if it doesn't work, prepare to go longer then a week without hearing from me (you can pull on all of last semester's training for help in that area).

So, ladies and gentleman, I have just one more thing to say:

It's great to be back, back, back on blogging, um, writing, and . . .

That was so much more amusing in my head, and I actually had words that fit the song--the words, however are escaping me at the moment.

Good thing it's summer, and I'll have time to think about it.

Another reason to love Ebert--like you needed one

Just two quick quotes that made me smile:

"The Last Song" is based on the novel by Nicholas Sparks, who also wrote the screenplay. Sparks recently went on record as saying he is a greater novelist than Cormac McCarthy. This is true in the same sense that I am a better novelist than William Shakespeare. Sparks also said his novels are like Greek Tragedies. This may actually be true. I can't check it out because, tragically, no really bad Greek tragedies have survived."

"To be sure, I resent the sacrilege Nicholas Sparks commits by mentioning himself in the same sentence as Cormac McCarthy. I would not even allow him to say "Hello, bookstore? This is Nicholas Sparks. Could you send over the new Cormac McCarthy novel?" He should show respect by ordering anonymously."

I really have homework to do, but I needed a little Ebert first.