Sunday, March 28, 2004
I thought I left that book far behind...
Right before I graduated college, I announced to myself that it was time for me to take something up. Every now and again a man needs to take something up. A real project it must be, but as far as subject matter it can be anything really. Some prime examples include a particular card game, a fancy liquor, fishing, exercising, the study of a language, another attempt to consume a Bennigan's Monte Cristo in one sitting, an expensive weekly social engagement (dating), etc. You get the idea. So, I searched my thoughts and decided it'd been a while since I'd seen a good mafia flick. But, recall, I wanted to take something up, so I couldn't just go out and try (likely in vain) to find a good mafia movie I hadn't seen. This left me only one option - to take up watching The Sopranos. I was four seasons out of four seasons behind, but not to worry as my best buddy Griffin has them all on DVD. More than likely, he'd have no pressing engagements over the summer, so I knew it was a safe bet as he'd want to watch them with me. In fact, he'd been suggesting it for a while. So we did. Four seasons of the Sopranos in one summer. And I'm hooked. Now the fifth season is on and I look forward to it every week. So, to get to the point alluded to in the title, I was watching the new episode this evening and two characters were conversing over lunch. One says to the other, "Have you ever read 'Madame Bovary'?" In reply, "No, who wrote it?" "Gustave Flaubert. I think you'd like it. It's almost the perfect novel."
You may have noticed I broke a tradition of linking you to the amazon.com page appropriate to whatever book I am talking about. I won't do it here. I can't. As a matter of principle. I don't want you to even for a moment consider buying this book. "Madame Bovary" is quite possibly the worst novel I have picked up in my life. There are no redeeming qualities to it. It is not entertaining. It is not a gripping tale. Hell, I don't even think it's written very well. I've spent the better part of six years trying to forget I ever held it in my hands. And now this. One of my favorite indulgences, watching the Sopranos, has to go and not only mention it, but mention it in the context of "a perfect novel". I'm completely close-minded on this issue, so don't bother trying to convince me otherwise. That's all there is to it.
-R
Right before I graduated college, I announced to myself that it was time for me to take something up. Every now and again a man needs to take something up. A real project it must be, but as far as subject matter it can be anything really. Some prime examples include a particular card game, a fancy liquor, fishing, exercising, the study of a language, another attempt to consume a Bennigan's Monte Cristo in one sitting, an expensive weekly social engagement (dating), etc. You get the idea. So, I searched my thoughts and decided it'd been a while since I'd seen a good mafia flick. But, recall, I wanted to take something up, so I couldn't just go out and try (likely in vain) to find a good mafia movie I hadn't seen. This left me only one option - to take up watching The Sopranos. I was four seasons out of four seasons behind, but not to worry as my best buddy Griffin has them all on DVD. More than likely, he'd have no pressing engagements over the summer, so I knew it was a safe bet as he'd want to watch them with me. In fact, he'd been suggesting it for a while. So we did. Four seasons of the Sopranos in one summer. And I'm hooked. Now the fifth season is on and I look forward to it every week. So, to get to the point alluded to in the title, I was watching the new episode this evening and two characters were conversing over lunch. One says to the other, "Have you ever read 'Madame Bovary'?" In reply, "No, who wrote it?" "Gustave Flaubert. I think you'd like it. It's almost the perfect novel."
You may have noticed I broke a tradition of linking you to the amazon.com page appropriate to whatever book I am talking about. I won't do it here. I can't. As a matter of principle. I don't want you to even for a moment consider buying this book. "Madame Bovary" is quite possibly the worst novel I have picked up in my life. There are no redeeming qualities to it. It is not entertaining. It is not a gripping tale. Hell, I don't even think it's written very well. I've spent the better part of six years trying to forget I ever held it in my hands. And now this. One of my favorite indulgences, watching the Sopranos, has to go and not only mention it, but mention it in the context of "a perfect novel". I'm completely close-minded on this issue, so don't bother trying to convince me otherwise. That's all there is to it.
-R
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