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Just got back from seeing my friend perform as the lead in Sylvia, or The Goat by Edward Albee. Hard to find much that's shocking, these days, but I think bestiality does it. But it made such a bizarre situation universal. I guess that was the point--to portray the reality of betrayal and the pain of denied love, he had to take something that hasn't been whitewashed by PC--in early years, he could have written this about adulterous, interracial, or same-sex love, but those can't still provoke the same shock in the audience. And to empathize with Stevie and Martin we need to understand that this betrayal is horrific and this need is real. And how real Sylvia (the goat)becomes and how sad and shocking her death is. As so often happens when families get off track--some innocent pays the ultimate price.
The other thing that struck me was how amazingly Albee moves between comdedy and tragedy and finally mixes them together.
And also,
1) How many books do you have?
OK, I already wish I was doing the movie version. Too many. Consider that both my husband and I are retired academics who have recently emptied offices. And consider that even though we built a new room just for books and computer that we’ve disposed of boxes and boxes of books. And finally, recall that I have books in three houses, at least. So I will give my answer in shelves. 4 foot shelves: 13. 3 foot shelves: 18. 5 foot shelves:2. The books vary in size so much I can’t guess the number. But whatever, they’re multiplying faster than Anya’s bunnies.
2) and 3) What is the last book you bought? What is the last book you read?
The last book I bought was Candide in French, but not for me—a graduation present for a former World Lit student who went on to become a good friend and admin assistant at the college where I used to work (she and I have been known to watch belly dancers and smoke hookahs together. She wrote a great paper for me on that book). The last book I read, as reported, was Peters’ Serpent on the Crown but also am reading Women Poets of China (you could have guessed that, right?) and my Spanish textbook, if that counts. Currently avoiding moving into subjunctive—still need to firm up my hold on preterite and imperfect endings before stirring in another. Also reading an Elizabeth George mystery in Spanish translation. Not as good as Mexican soap operas, but I get to see the accent marks.
4) Five books that mean a lot to me.
OK, nice that this doesn’t ask for the ones that mean the most. That would be impossible. So here’s a snapshot of my mind, today. Sorry, but I had to do some of them in pairs:
a) Madame Bovary Always, in my mind, the ultimate of what a novel can be. Subtle, accurate, empathetic yet satiric at the same time. I suspect many a feminist will call me traitor (and perhaps rightly)—and yet this is the book that woke me as a woman. Helped that I followed it with The Second Sex.
b) Far Tortuga by Peter Mathiessen. In a very different way, also the Platonic ideal of a very different kind of novel, where shifting points of view, words on the page, and moral commitment just floor me every time. (And it’s the world I love best, the Caribbean and its creatures and cultures.) When I’m not already knocked out by The Snow Leopard by the same author.
c) V by Thomas Pynchon and Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne. Odd bedfellows, right? But both complete rearranged my mind when it comes to how fiction works.
d) Sunshine by Robin McKinley. This is the book I wish I’d written by the writer I wish I was.
e)Collected Sonnets by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Not the greatest poet ever, but not as bad as some say. But she was my bible, when I was so much older—I’m younger than that now.
5) Tag five others to do this meme.
Apologies and you’re excused if you’ve already been tagged or don’t want to do this or think it's dumb. And also permission to switch over to movies or even music. Or whatever. But you're it:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladyhelix, rebekahroxanna, maeve_rigan, the_red_shoes, jackiejj. And thanks.
The other thing that struck me was how amazingly Albee moves between comdedy and tragedy and finally mixes them together.
And also,
1) How many books do you have?
OK, I already wish I was doing the movie version. Too many. Consider that both my husband and I are retired academics who have recently emptied offices. And consider that even though we built a new room just for books and computer that we’ve disposed of boxes and boxes of books. And finally, recall that I have books in three houses, at least. So I will give my answer in shelves. 4 foot shelves: 13. 3 foot shelves: 18. 5 foot shelves:2. The books vary in size so much I can’t guess the number. But whatever, they’re multiplying faster than Anya’s bunnies.
2) and 3) What is the last book you bought? What is the last book you read?
The last book I bought was Candide in French, but not for me—a graduation present for a former World Lit student who went on to become a good friend and admin assistant at the college where I used to work (she and I have been known to watch belly dancers and smoke hookahs together. She wrote a great paper for me on that book). The last book I read, as reported, was Peters’ Serpent on the Crown but also am reading Women Poets of China (you could have guessed that, right?) and my Spanish textbook, if that counts. Currently avoiding moving into subjunctive—still need to firm up my hold on preterite and imperfect endings before stirring in another. Also reading an Elizabeth George mystery in Spanish translation. Not as good as Mexican soap operas, but I get to see the accent marks.
4) Five books that mean a lot to me.
OK, nice that this doesn’t ask for the ones that mean the most. That would be impossible. So here’s a snapshot of my mind, today. Sorry, but I had to do some of them in pairs:
a) Madame Bovary Always, in my mind, the ultimate of what a novel can be. Subtle, accurate, empathetic yet satiric at the same time. I suspect many a feminist will call me traitor (and perhaps rightly)—and yet this is the book that woke me as a woman. Helped that I followed it with The Second Sex.
b) Far Tortuga by Peter Mathiessen. In a very different way, also the Platonic ideal of a very different kind of novel, where shifting points of view, words on the page, and moral commitment just floor me every time. (And it’s the world I love best, the Caribbean and its creatures and cultures.) When I’m not already knocked out by The Snow Leopard by the same author.
c) V by Thomas Pynchon and Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne. Odd bedfellows, right? But both complete rearranged my mind when it comes to how fiction works.
d) Sunshine by Robin McKinley. This is the book I wish I’d written by the writer I wish I was.
e)Collected Sonnets by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Not the greatest poet ever, but not as bad as some say. But she was my bible, when I was so much older—I’m younger than that now.
5) Tag five others to do this meme.
Apologies and you’re excused if you’ve already been tagged or don’t want to do this or think it's dumb. And also permission to switch over to movies or even music. Or whatever. But you're it:
ladyhelix, rebekahroxanna, maeve_rigan, the_red_shoes, jackiejj. And thanks.![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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So, I should probably get right on that book meme!
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Sylvia is way beyond Who's Afraid of VW in shock value, but the interactions are similar. I'm tempted to say nothing is hidden in it, but maybe that's not right. Still thinking...
Yay, book meme (sorry!)
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This, for your wedding:
Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
and rise and sink and rise and sink again.
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
pinned down by need and moaning for release
or nagged by want past resolutions power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It may well be. I do not think I would.