Let's begin with my apologies to all of you who don't speak English. And, on second thoughts , my apologies also to those who DO speak English.
For both, the responsible is my English teacher, Sonia, to whom I made the promise of writing an essay on Vile Bodies (by Evelyn Waugh) in English. Address your complaints to her.
As I told the other day, reading for me is not a pleasure but a necessity, something born of obligation and rarely of desire. The satisfaction it provides come from finishing the task. But even tough, it is like an arranged marriage: in the beginning you don't know your partner (don't wish to, at all), but after 20 years of marriage, sometimes u find yourself, suddenly, feeling something amazingly tender for the former stranger who have shared your bed for so long. Ok, Vile Bodies is boring, tiresome the assignment, a load of bricks... but, hey!, its "my" load of bricks. My arranged wife has moustache, fer sure, but it's her/my/our moustache.
At the end, you will find a sort of familiarity with the novel, the same way his protagonist share a shelter, a drink and the company of a girl, with the very same guy who have cheated him (what was it? £500?), the sucker and the swindler, the awfully bored student and the awfully boring homework, the reader and the story.
The story is about a boy, a wretched rich, a misfit who fits perfectly in a posh place... ok, finished with the oxymorons.... But so it's the story, an 320 pages of oxymoron.
Adam is a twenty something who plans to marry his girl, Nina, but cannot 'cause he is broken. He plans to become a writer, and earns his living with that, but he cannot again 'cause the custom officer burns his novel. (He at the end learns not to plan)
On the other hand he is a lucky fellow. He screws the girl, lives with no money, has the luxury of hope....
He and the rest of the people lives in a tightrope, on the edge, on the uncertainty... whirling and spinning like the cars in the motor race where Adam and his friends (Miles, Schwert and Agatha) went... Who could have imagined that Miss Runcible would ended at the steering wheel of one of the race speedsters? And who could have imagined that the drunk lady could be at the head of the race, winning? And who could have imagined that she could outrun the Italian favourite? And who could have imagined that she'd crashed miles later with an statue? (ok, whether you could or could not, I have spoiled for you already)
There is a long tradition of literature of the rich and the famous, the preps and the posh: for instance, The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald, Less than Zero by Easton Ellis, The Bostonians by Henry James... What, the social class is conflict, thus it's a literature issue... What Tolkien (who like Waugh, converted into Catholicism after the war) called Beautiful People (elves) is as the Young Bright People, an aristocracy doomed to disappear, a high-class life style vanishing quickly, fading away... leaving the inhabitants of that world disoriented, guided only by primal instinct from party to party, bored to death.
Deaths. There are two. They are not regrettable. They live by the sword, died by the sword (the sword of emptyness, of frivolity, of stupidity)
The only one who knows, who understands what's going on, is the Jesuit priest. And his words are the
For both, the responsible is my English teacher, Sonia, to whom I made the promise of writing an essay on Vile Bodies (by Evelyn Waugh) in English. Address your complaints to her.
As I told the other day, reading for me is not a pleasure but a necessity, something born of obligation and rarely of desire. The satisfaction it provides come from finishing the task. But even tough, it is like an arranged marriage: in the beginning you don't know your partner (don't wish to, at all), but after 20 years of marriage, sometimes u find yourself, suddenly, feeling something amazingly tender for the former stranger who have shared your bed for so long. Ok, Vile Bodies is boring, tiresome the assignment, a load of bricks... but, hey!, its "my" load of bricks. My arranged wife has moustache, fer sure, but it's her/my/our moustache.
At the end, you will find a sort of familiarity with the novel, the same way his protagonist share a shelter, a drink and the company of a girl, with the very same guy who have cheated him (what was it? £500?), the sucker and the swindler, the awfully bored student and the awfully boring homework, the reader and the story.
The story is about a boy, a wretched rich, a misfit who fits perfectly in a posh place... ok, finished with the oxymorons.... But so it's the story, an 320 pages of oxymoron.
Adam is a twenty something who plans to marry his girl, Nina, but cannot 'cause he is broken. He plans to become a writer, and earns his living with that, but he cannot again 'cause the custom officer burns his novel. (He at the end learns not to plan)
On the other hand he is a lucky fellow. He screws the girl, lives with no money, has the luxury of hope....
He and the rest of the people lives in a tightrope, on the edge, on the uncertainty... whirling and spinning like the cars in the motor race where Adam and his friends (Miles, Schwert and Agatha) went... Who could have imagined that Miss Runcible would ended at the steering wheel of one of the race speedsters? And who could have imagined that the drunk lady could be at the head of the race, winning? And who could have imagined that she could outrun the Italian favourite? And who could have imagined that she'd crashed miles later with an statue? (ok, whether you could or could not, I have spoiled for you already)
There is a long tradition of literature of the rich and the famous, the preps and the posh: for instance, The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald, Less than Zero by Easton Ellis, The Bostonians by Henry James... What, the social class is conflict, thus it's a literature issue... What Tolkien (who like Waugh, converted into Catholicism after the war) called Beautiful People (elves) is as the Young Bright People, an aristocracy doomed to disappear, a high-class life style vanishing quickly, fading away... leaving the inhabitants of that world disoriented, guided only by primal instinct from party to party, bored to death.
Deaths. There are two. They are not regrettable. They live by the sword, died by the sword (the sword of emptyness, of frivolity, of stupidity)
The only one who knows, who understands what's going on, is the Jesuit priest. And his words are the
.... it will continue
Jajajaja, estaba agarrada a la silla y con el cinturón abrochado por si acaso... Me alegra saber que no me odias después de haberte hecho pasar por este calvarios. ¡Me he divertido mucho!
ResponderEliminarSaludos.