Greetings, fellow readers! It's perfect weather for reading here in Gainesville today, which of course means that I have a paper due tomorrow and can only weep at the happy thoughts of novels and apple cider tea dancing through my head. Fortunately, I make it my policy to give my rough drafts several hours' rest before revising (the better to catch my own mistakes), and I am now ensconced on my bed with The Secret History by Donna Tartt.
Now, before we get into the book review, let me just say that reading in bed, while pleasurable, is not my ideal for a wet, gray day like today. What this day really needs is a big, comfy chair and a roaring fire with two greyhounds and a black cat stretched out in front of it beneath my feet as I sip my apple cider tea and listen to the drips drop down. If I really wanted to go all out, this scenario would play out in the oak-paneled library of an old English country house, and I would be joined by an officious butler fond of pipe tobacco and The Pickwick Papers. Take note, ladies and gentlemen--this is the way to my heart!
Anyway, I digress: to the book! I started reading The Secret History last night because I was having trouble sleeping. Before I knew it, my roommate was asleep, and I was nearly 150 pages in, feeling wider awake than when I started. This book sucks you in slowly and softly before punching you in the gut with a plot twist. It's about a group of Classics students and their teacher (ahem, no surprise that I'd find this interesting!) at a small college in Vermont. The group is very insular compared to the rest of the college: the students take all their classes with this one professor, and they spend their free time having witty intellectual debates, complete with quotes in Latin, Greek, and French (read with a dictionary or Google handy to catch all the jokes.) All of this seems harmless enough, if a little eccentric, until the main character, who is also the narrator, reveals that one of the group is fated to die at the end of the book.
Why, you ask? Well, said students and teacher are attempting nothing other than the re-creation of the mystery religion of Dionysus, complete with all its attendant substance-induced frenzy and bloodshed, in the woods of rural Vermont. Fortunately, I just had to write a paper on this mystery religion for my Pompeii Archaeology class, so I can offer some explanation for those of you who are unfamiliar with the myth.
The story goes that Dionysus was the son of Zeus and Semele, a mortal woman. Zeus, being a god, came to Semele in human form, but his jealous wife, Hera, tricked Semele into getting Zeus to reveal his true form to her. This burned the unfortunate pregnant Semele to a crisp, but luckily Zeus was able to snatch the baby Dionysus from his mother, sew the baby into his thigh, and wait for him to be born. Because of this and other myths, Dionysus came to be regarded as a protector of lost souls and a god of rebirth.
He's also famous for being the god of wine and altered states. His followers were reputed to drink themselves into a frenzy, whereupon they would flee to the woods to dance, shriek, and carouse throughout the night. The satyrs and maenads were his creatures; legend tells us they suckled and copulated with wild animals and tore both people and animals limb from limb as part of the worship of the god.
Sounds like fun, right? Well, these students apparently thought so, and our main character is only just realizing what his friends have been up to on their midnight jaunts.
There's another important part of this religion which I think is going to be essential to the plot: followers of Dionysus could be initiated into the cult at his temple in Greece, thereby securing themselves eternal life. We don't know a lot about the initiation process (the way it works is that if you told the secret, you didn't get eternal life), but we do know that you had to be able to speak Greek (presumably so you could participate in the rituals) and you couldn't be a murderer. There were some other forbidden professions, but otherwise this religion was open to men and women alike. For those of you who are super curious about this backstory, here's a link to the Villa of the Mysteries in Pompeii, where there are wall paintings depicting what scholars think is a Dionysian initiation ceremony.
Here's what I think: main guy hasn't been initiated yet, but he's about to be, and something goes wrong, which is why one of the students dies. I could be entirely wrong about this, but in the interest of avoiding spoilers, I will simply say this: if, based on this quick review, the book sounds interesting, go ahead and check it out for yourself and let me know what you think. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to continue to take advantage of this excellent reading weather.
Until next time,
Anna
Monday, November 17, 2014
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
No Taxation without Defenestration
Greetings, fellow readers! With election day nigh and early American literature at the forefront of my mind, I've been thinking a lot lately about that old motto of the revolution, no taxation without representation . . . only for some reason, I wrote "no taxation without defenestration." This struck me as insanely funny, defenestration being one of the English language's grossly underused words. Therefore, I decided to look up the history of the word, and I came across this delightful Wikipedia article concerning the Defenestrations of Prague, whereby unfortunate members of the city council fell out of favor and the window. I can't imagine why this practice ever fell out of fashion.
Then I got to thinking about some of the major grievances the American colonists had concerning taxation, first among them the tax on tea and stamps. I don't think this resonates with many other people today, but to me, the idea of taxing two of the products on which I spend the majority of my income is horrifying in the extreme. I drink about three cups of tea per day and send anywhere from five to ten letters per week. This behavior no doubt means I have more in common with Americans of the past, who were, in fact, British, than with my contemporaries; however, I will say this: I cannot imagine possessing the fortitude required to abstain from tea and stamps to make a political statement.
This may be indicative of weakness and lack of adherence to ideals on my part, but I seriously doubt I would have the presence of mind to follow through with such a resolution. There are few things I consider worth the fight; for my part, I'd much rather solve the problem with defenestration.
There's my version of a modest proposal for you!
Until next time,
Anna
P.S. I realize this post wasn't very much about books, but rest assured, I am busy reading away and will have more updates for you soon.
Then I got to thinking about some of the major grievances the American colonists had concerning taxation, first among them the tax on tea and stamps. I don't think this resonates with many other people today, but to me, the idea of taxing two of the products on which I spend the majority of my income is horrifying in the extreme. I drink about three cups of tea per day and send anywhere from five to ten letters per week. This behavior no doubt means I have more in common with Americans of the past, who were, in fact, British, than with my contemporaries; however, I will say this: I cannot imagine possessing the fortitude required to abstain from tea and stamps to make a political statement.
This may be indicative of weakness and lack of adherence to ideals on my part, but I seriously doubt I would have the presence of mind to follow through with such a resolution. There are few things I consider worth the fight; for my part, I'd much rather solve the problem with defenestration.
There's my version of a modest proposal for you!
Until next time,
Anna
P.S. I realize this post wasn't very much about books, but rest assured, I am busy reading away and will have more updates for you soon.
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