‘Flowers in a Attic,’ ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ and a admission of literary …
April 9, 2015 - Fifty Shades of Grey
I am a book snob.
I fold my nose during cover illustrations of sweaty group in kilts. we hurl my eyeballs during intrigue novels patrician “Felicity’s Lusty, Heaving Bodice on a Foggy Moors.”
These books will never win a Pulitzer, and furthermore, no lady wearing a bodice that parsimonious is feeling lusty. Mostly, she is feeling gloomy from burst ribs.
Nevertheless, currently we am revelation that I’m something even worse than a book snob:
I’m a hypocrite.
I once done fun of prime women who review a grammatically free-form “Fifty Shades of Grey.” And yet, once on a time, we was a immature lady reading V. C. Andrews’ whole “Flowers in a Attic” series.
Remember “Flowers in a Attic”?
It’s a story of 4 children who live in a integument of an aged palace while their mom attempts to retrieve her father’s good graces. At least, we consider it’s her father. we review a book over 30 years ago, and we remember a lot of hanky panky between uncles and nieces, nieces and nephews, and afterwards there was that stage between a hermit and sister.
I review “Flowers in a Attic” when we was England and, ironically, investigate English literature. we was an sell tyro and vital in Devonshire (near a misty moors) with a horde family. My horde mom had review all of V.C. Andrews’ books and, meaningful we was investigate literature, wanted to share her favorite author with me.
I had no goal of reading Ms. Andrews’ works, though we didn’t wish to be ungracious. we thanked my horde mom and placed a paperbacks on a shelf nearby my bed. Then, one long, stormy afternoon with zero many to do, we picked adult a initial book and incited to page one.
It was awful.
In a many tasty way, “Flowers in a Attic” was splendidly awful. we couldn’t stop reading. we review a whole array in one weekend, and this was right after we had told my highbrow that my favorite authors were D.H. Lawrence and Jane Austen.
Sure, I’d review “Pride and Prejudice” and had honestly favourite it. But, in between essay papers on such retaining topics as “The Judeo-Christian symbolism of ravens and essay desks in post-mid18th century novels about people who pee in cover pots,” we was out joy-riding with authors who weren’t on a syllabus. Tom Robbins, Kurt Vonnegut, Hunter S. Thompson–great writers, though really veering from an central investigate of critical tomes created by passed people.
Another guilty pleasure? Stephen King’s “The Stand,” a novel about an baleful super flu. we review it once, and afterwards once more, and afterwards so many times that, to this day, we can't expostulate by a Lincoln Tunnel but devising being surrounded by a decomposing bodies of victims who attempted to rush Manhattan. (I take a Holland Tunnel now.)
An how about “The Bridges of Madison County” by Robert James Waller? Back in a 1990’s, we walked onto a transport automobile and roughly each lady between a ages of 18 and 108 had a duplicate of Waller’s book in her hands. And we gamble a one lady reading “The New Yorker” personally had a duplicate of “Bridges of Madison County” dark behind her magazine.
“The Bridges of Madison County” is cornier than a Iowa countryside. You consider women got flack for reading about vampire adore biters in “Twilight”? Well, that was zero to a contrition of being held adult in a banned adore between a farmer’s mother and a “National Geographic” photographer. In Madison County. Amongst a bridges.
I don’t know when we became distant about books.
Maybe it was during my time operative in a bookstore when shelves of classical children’s scholarship novella were transposed by books about cute, paranormal boyfriends. Maybe it was after a teen asked me either Jane Austen had created any some-more books about zombies.
I theory we should say, “Hey, during slightest kids are reading, right?”
And in a same approach that each dish can’t be kale and flax seed souffle, infrequently we only wish to assimilate something slimey and yummy. Like macaroni and cheese, for example.
And that’s OK.
I’ll admit, we certain do adore me some reading smothered in cheese.
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