SALACIOUS!!

I taught my friend Cindy a new word today (it's really more of a motto, isn't it, Cin?). Salacious: lecherous, pornographic, relating to shocking debauchery. I'd like to say it's kind of like my life, but alas, I'm married, and currently salacious-deprived.

I was using this word to describe W. Faulkner's Sanctuary, which we recently read in my American Lit class. Quite a piece of work! I'm not sure if I mean that in a good way, but I promise to give Bill another chance. I'll reserve judgment until I finish Absalom, Absalom! But I should tell you that Papa is winning the contest for my affections. Call me kooky, but I prefer bullfighting, alcoholism, and sparity of prose over incest, rape by corncob, and stream-of-consciousness stylings. Tonight I continue For Whom the Bell Tolls, which I'm loving. It's as depressing as Sanctuary, but in a much more satisfying way. It's an uplifting depression. Yeah, everybody dies, but you feel good about it at the end. Yup...Papa is my Daddy so far.

And here I insert a completely unrelated comment: VERMONT WON!!!!!! YAY, VERMONT!!!!

Now back to our regularly scheduled Hemingway. I just find so much to like about his writing. I think it takes more skill to write less, if you know what I mean. Hemingway's novels are concentrated. They're carefully constructed; words are deliberately chosen. Connotation is everything. He requires an engaged, attentive reader, which I am not. I'm lazy. I'll admit it: I'm a spoiled, lazy, naughty reader, and I should be spanked hard with a Riverside Shakespeare (and after that, the oral sex!).

Er... Python reference. Couldn't be helped.

Anyway, I'm lazy because I read fast. I find it easy to visualize action in a novel: so easy, in fact, that I can skip entire paragraphs and not lose anything. But with Hemingway, I am forced to pay attention, because every word matters. Nothing is written by accident; nothing is given for free. I work for the story. I sweat for it. And when I finish one of his novels, I feel like I've accomplished something, and I'm damn tired from it. I admire his craftsmanship. I trust him as an author, and I'll go where he leads me -- even if it's someplace not very pleasant.

Faulkner, on the other hand.... Well, as promised, I will reserve judgment. I'm not going to argue that he's a bad writer; I know he's A Great Artist. To me, he's just too...I don't know... rich, maybe? Hemingway's like cool melon on a hot day. Faulkner is double chocolate pound cake with chocolate chips and hot fudge sauce. Way too much for me, and IMHO, marginally overrated.

But then, I'm not a sweet person. I'm spicy. I'm sassy. I'm salacious!!

I'll close for tonight with a shout-out to my lurkers, who I didn't even know were lurking! When I bitchily asked for comments, kids, I was not referring to you. You're obviously sweet, gentle souls; you did not deserve a tongue-lashing. Welcome to my blog. Visit long and comment often.

See? I'm not just salacious. I'm also gracious.