Sustained Criticism

Idiot that I am, I read Heart of Darkness first. I thought we were discussing that on Friday, but we're not, we're talking about Beloved (Morrison). Three hundred pages to get through tomorrow, then.

Studying literature at a university that haunts the bottoms of ranking lists does not make for good employment prospects. I have no more than two semesters left to finish my BA, which means I must make a decision. As I see it, I have three options: finish my BA, then run off to Oxford to start over and get a proper education; study medicine and specialise in surgery; study law. Do either of the three, then go into the Diplomatic Corpse. Or I can put it all off another year by applying for the Military's intensive Russian course – Russian and espionage, I'm sure I'd enjoy interrogating people in Russian. And Russian is rather fun.

The elimination method, eliminating the ones that mean I will have to go improve my grades, leaves literature at Oxford and law. I would love to go all out and run off to Oxford, but then what will I do when I'm done? Sensibly, law is a great option. Anette is equally depressed about her situation, so we drink coffee and sigh. Or make Hilde panic about her bachelor's thesis, due in two semesters. Poor thing, I don't think she ought to be around me.

Joining Mother for a dress rehearsal of Yasmina Reza's God of Carnage ("Blodig Alvor", in Norwegian) at Nationaltheatret tomorrow. Hoping it will have me in stitches by the first act. I need some fun to take my mind off all the reading, and the general despondency of attending a crappy university.

I used to write about literature, didn't I?

McEwan's Atonement, Morton's The House at Riverton and The Secret Garden (I haven't read it, but judging by the dust-jacket it's one book with different names), Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale. None of them are badly written, Atonement is at times heart-breaking, but they are all very much the same. Old, dying, remorseful lady confessing her sins. Or the sins, or secrets of others. A new genre, perhaps? Dignified Romance Novels? Bedside reading for the educated housewife. Aimed at Lit. students with time off.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Markh Haddon. I think some mad psychiatrist/acquaintance/colleague of Father recommended it, when she heard what I study. It is easy-going, naive postmodernism about a fifteen-year-old with Asbergers. From what little I know of the disease, the character is accomplished. Other than that, it is unremarkable. The writing is uninspiring, the technique a replica. A more childish version of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Did Haddon read Postmodernism 101 while writing it?

Coetzee I've commented on, and still love. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger) was surprisingly good. A thoroughly unreliable narrator and no plot to speak of makes for a very interesting read. Toni Morrison took me aback when I started her Sula. Another one of those tedious black novels, I thought. Never have I been more mistaken. The story is compelling enough, but her writing is fantastic. Poetic, insightful, striking, and oh, the characters. She is entirely deserving of her Nobel Prize.

"Daughters of distant mothers and incomprehensible fathers (Sula's because he was dead; Nel's because he wasn't)" (Sula, p. 52). Sometimes what is implied is all the more powerful because it is not written.

Next on the list is DeLillo's Falling Man, another fictional account of 9/11. The other DeLillo book I bought was way over my head. He wrote it after finishing a master in maths and physics, apparently. I hope that excuses my thick-headedness.