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sunshowerdandelionWill write more tomorrow because I am literally nodding off,but I finished The Heart is a Lonely Hunter! Honestly I gobbled it up, the last hundred-fifty pages or so, in one very confusing and interrupted day (today, Sunday) and the impact of the book has hit me but I haven't felt it fully yet. What's clear is that I cried when Mick enrolls at Woolworth and thinks vaguely about being tricked, and later again when Mick talks about how she's (temporarily) lost the music. And how Biff observes that her manners have gotten more ladylike. When the magic goes away that is what it feels like.
I also read more of Carson's biography and she really was a bit of a 'holy terror' and 'enfant terrible'! Again I have not fully processed this reading experience and I must say that this completely grounds Carson for me: I now have Complex Feelings about a Complex Person which is what a good biography's supposed to make you feel. I also completely, completely sympathize with her headlong, heart-on-her-sleeve self-flinging approach towards love. I can't clutch pearls at her genuflecting and begging for Katherine Ann Porter to love her when I've also anxiety-vomited over a six-hour gap in communications (I am not so clingy now thankfully). I think it's unfair of Mary V. Dearborn to write of this as mere melodrama: though maybe she means melodrama in the Llosian sense of something that undercuts high drama with the absurd, funny, stupid things that interrupt it, with the effect of making things more real. Because it's also that. Also Mario Vargas Llosa is now a right-wing neoliberal politician I guess, I really need to sleep.
I also read more of Carson's biography and she really was a bit of a 'holy terror' and 'enfant terrible'! Again I have not fully processed this reading experience and I must say that this completely grounds Carson for me: I now have Complex Feelings about a Complex Person which is what a good biography's supposed to make you feel. I also completely, completely sympathize with her headlong, heart-on-her-sleeve self-flinging approach towards love. I can't clutch pearls at her genuflecting and begging for Katherine Ann Porter to love her when I've also anxiety-vomited over a six-hour gap in communications (I am not so clingy now thankfully). I think it's unfair of Mary V. Dearborn to write of this as mere melodrama: though maybe she means melodrama in the Llosian sense of something that undercuts high drama with the absurd, funny, stupid things that interrupt it, with the effect of making things more real. Because it's also that. Also Mario Vargas Llosa is now a right-wing neoliberal politician I guess, I really need to sleep.
