The Canterbury Tales is basically like sharing time at camp

The Canterbury Tales is something I've peeped at from the side of my eye time and time again, which has always resulted in becoming scared of it and running to something like Mary Poppins Opens a Door. Because while said tales remain popular and are some of the oldest English literature, etc etc, they are some of the OLDEST English literature, and their opening in its original form goes like this:

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour

NOPE. "Swich licour"? "Soote"? I am dealing with none of this. But. I'm sick of everyone making Wife of Bath jokes and me not getting them. So I picked up the Penguin Classics edition, which has UPDATED LANGUAGE, which is the only way I'm ever reading this since it's 500 pages and I'm not reading about "sondry londes" for that long.

exactly.

In case you're unaware, The Canterbury Tales is about a bunch of people who decide to make a pilgrimage to Canterbury Cathedral to visit the shrine of Thomas Becket, because what else are you going to do in the 14th century other than die of plague?

After listing each of the travelers in the group while they're all stopped at an inn, the narrator tells how the innkeeper (I think) is all "HEY y'know what, I like you guys. How about, since it's a longass way to Canterbury, you each tell two stories there and two stories back, and at the end I'll decide (since I'm now going with you) who told the best story, and then everyone has to buy that dude dinner. At my inn. I totally don't do this all the time."

They all say yes, because who doesn't like telling stories to people forced to listen because of a bet?

I google mapped this journey by bike, because bikes and horses are probably exactly the same, right?

Ok, so six hours if you rode your bike continuously. BUT it's 65 miles. I looked that up and came upon what is surely the work of someone very special HERE, which makes me think the journey to Canterbury would take the party about two days. Maybe three. I don't know how often they stop yet. Or if there are bandits.

One of the unexpected benefits of reading this 1390s work is that Chaucer gives you details of the daily lives and habits of a wide range of people. The nun, when she sings, intones "through her nose, as was most seemly." The yeoman "wore a coat and hood of green,/And peacock-feathered arrows, bright and keen." 

Peacock-feathered arrows sound BADASS.

I'm only on the first story, which is The Knight's Tale (no, not that one). So far he's talking about Theseus and Greece, and I'm not sure what his game is other than to sound smarter than everyone else, but after the prologue, I trust Chaucer implicitly in the realm of awesomeness.

I hope the Knight's Tale ends like this

Lifeline's Smartypants Spelling Bee: I Misspelled a Bird Name and Then Got Drunk

Monday night, I participated in a spelling bee for the first time since age 13. The last spelling bee I remember was 7th grade and I got out on 'enlightening.' IT COULD HAVE BEEN 'ENLIGHTNING.' It could've been. The time before that (all of 6th grade is a forced blank in my mind) was 5th grade when I won the school spelling bee, beating my 8th grade brother when it came down to the two of us and sailing onto 4th place regional glory ("carotid," you are my nemesis from now to the end of time).

that's for you, carotid

The Second Annual Smartypants Spelling Bee was a fundraiser for Lifeline Theatre. I will forever support Lifeline because of their Peter Wimsey adaptations. I saw their Busman's Honeymoon, what, two, three, eleventy times? They also exposed the supreme silliness of the ending of Count of Monte Cristo for all the world to see (I'm not saying they said it was silly, but it SO OBVIOUSLY IS and now people know), and then did Tale of Two Cities and The Killer Angels this season.

They operate out of a space that is essentially the size of a high-ceilinged but otherwise quite normal-sized two-car garage. And are able to put on shows like Tale of Two Cities. It is impressive. They're doing Jane Eyre next season, which I think I'm contractually obligated by life to see, as well as a MUSICAL version of Soon I Will Be Invincible, which...I think Megs from The Terrible Desire is contractually obligated to see? In case you haven't figured it out, they do literary adaptations, so they are a bookish theatre. Lovely. And look how well it ties in with my blog!

I should just add this to every
blog entry to make it relevant

But back to the spelling bee. I kept not signing up for it, because I worried I would IMMEDIATELY FAIL, but I have a thing where if I'm scared to do something, I basically have to do it, so I last-minute joined and was 26th out of 30.

The delightful thing about an adult spelling bee is that there is booze. Also we're adults and most of us have jobs and aren't basing our grade school intellectual identity on getting words right, so if we get something wrong, we don't have to then try to do really well on our Social Studies diorama. Also the Mayne Stage is a wonderfully relaxed space where instead of theatre seats, there're table and chairs, so everyone was pretty much just having a good time. My seatmate Rob was a lawyer and had of course been a complit major (all the best people are). Since we'd signed up late, we were in the last row, which gave us the same solidarity I assume the burn-outs in high school have. It was excellent. There was a lot of woo-ing (mostly from me).

What words were in the first round? I don't know. I know someone got 'onomatopoeia,' about which there was an OUTCRY. I got 'jaundice,' which I could spell because my grandmother had it. I've only just now realized the only reason there's any alternate spelling in my brain is because of Mr Jarndyce in Bleak House. 

I was pretty happy about jaundice, though.

I absolutely do not remember my second word except that it was not a problem, and then THIRD ROUND....there was 'whippoorwill.' Which has two o's, man. Two. And at which my friends when they heard it burst out laughing, because they thought it was hilarious-sounding. I was STRUCK from the contest, finishing about halfway back out of 30 people, and watched the rest from the audience with said delightful friends, who bought me a drink that hit me immediately and I did a lot of fists in the air when someone spelled something right.

The last round involved words like "ampullaceous," "cotyledon," and "syzygy." Of those three, the only that would not have been a wild guess for me would have been syzygy, because NOT ONLY is that word an X-Files episode title, but it is an X-Files episode I had a quote from written on my shoes in 8th grade. Because I had X-Files shoes.

Like these, except more like ratty sneakers
with quotes written in ballpoint pen

The winner was a copy editor and a lady. I was originally dismayed (or as dismayed as is possible for me when I'm tipsy, which is NOT VERY) when we got to the final ten, because despite the overwhelming preponderance of women in the competition, over half the final ten were men. By the time we got to the final three, though, it was two women, one man, and then finally just the copy editor. Who spelled so confidently that we were all terrified. We chatted afterwards when I was very tipsy and she was very nice. Or so my brain interpreted things. Well done, her! Well done, all! Especially the people who were drinking onstage, because that is how it should be done.

SPELLING BEES FOREVER.

Megan Abbott's The Fever gives ME a fever....for more Megan Abbott

Lying on the floor, her mouth open, tongue lolling, Lise hadn't seemed like a girl at all.
It must have been a trick of the light, she told herself.
But looking down at Lise, lips stretched wide, Deenie thought, for one second, that she saw something hanging inside Lise's mouth, something black, like a bat flapping.

Megan Abbott's The Fever is NOT, in fact, a published X-Files episode. I hadn't read anything of hers before and had no idea what to expect, so when I read the above, I went "HEY this is clearly an alien/cryptozoology story." False. It is, however, a dark look at teen hysteria, teenage female friendship, and a weird little town that I'd very much like to drive around and look at more closely.

Why aren't you reeeeal, Twin Peaks

Basically there's the central family, which is Deenie, her brother Eli, and their father, Tom. The girls at Deenie's high school (including Deenie) have all recently gotten their HPV shots, and ALL OF A SUDDEN one of the girls has a fit at school and collapses. She is soon followed by others. What is going on. Is it the shot? SHOULD WE BE VACCINATING OUR CHILDREN (probably) and why are friendships in high school so dramatic, amirite?

Abbott strikes an interesting balance between portraying realistic relationship dynamics -- particularly between friends -- and also making everything just a little off. The people in this town are strange. And what was an extra-sell for me about the book is that it was relatable even when I, in fact, could not relate from my own experience. My high school was tiny. 120 kids tiny. Abbott delves into this weird, changing time in an adolescent's life when they're starting to become sexually active and discover who they are and navigate high school and all this, and honestly, my biggest concern in high school was how I could make my dad drive me two hours so I could see a preview screening of the movie Chicago. Movie musicals were making a comeback and I was going to be there, damnit.

I think you all might be forgetting how great that movie is

No one I knew was involved in even the outer limits of sexual activity. Or if they were, they certainly weren't going to tell me, because I was basically the abstinence movement's spokesperson and I judged. Hard. Turns out it's super-easy to be big on abstinence when you're not attracted to the opposite sex, but that's obviously another story.

So reading about these girls and their friendship dynamics felt foreign, but also familiar in unexpected ways. When you're out of high school and dealing with the usually much easier realm of adult friendships, you can forget things like how important it was to have your closest friends' locker combinations. How when one of your friends began to edge away with someone new, you couldn't do what you'd do now and just say "Dude, what the hell?" because you were a teenager and didn't know how to do that. You hadn't learned yet that most things aren't dramatic and silent agony is rarely the solution to your problems, however many awesome diary entries it might create.

right, like that

The Fever's a quick read, and Megan Abbott seems delightful on Twitter, so I recommend it. It definitely made me want to read her other stuff, which seems to bend towards the noir. This is a genre I'm slowly learning that I like, despite a lack of appreciation for Dashiell Hammett (his style's been too parodied! it's not his fault but it's still a fact!). Give me something dark with a twist and I am there 80% of the time. Also please drop lots of hints about someone not being who they seem to be. That's the best.

Ella Enchanted is HELLA ENCHANTING

There are so many fantastic middle grade books, but since I spent the majority of my important 11th and 12th years of life working for my parents so I could order 1980s Days of Our Lives tapes off the internet, I missed some really good ones. One was The Witch of Blackbird Pond, which I LOVE and am mad at myself for not reading as a child. Another is Ella Enchanted.

Ella Enchanted is basically what Cinderella would be if it weren't (when you really look at it) kind of dumb. What do we know about Cinderella's personality? ALMOST NOTHING. What do we know about her relationship with the prince? Oh, um...they meet at a ball and then he decides to marry her. After like a day. Then they get married The End. There's also something in the original about the wicked stepsisters having their eyes pecked out by birds, but life was Rough in the old days, man. Sometimes people's eyes got pecked out.

Ella fleshes out all the characters. Hattie the Stepsister sucks. Oh, how she sucks. I haven't felt that level of frustration since Umbridge. She TOOK. Ella's MOTHER'S. NECKLACE. It was her mother's. You know what, Hattie? Maybe you SHOULD'VE been attacked by birds. That being said, this line was hilarious:

"But I still hope Ella has come to no harm and has not been eaten by ogres or captured by bandits or caught fire or fallen into bad company, as I often imagine."

I basically want to marry Gail Carson Levine. The book reminds me of Shannon Hale's excellent The Goose Girl to the point that I'm pretty sure Shannon Hale just ripped off Ella Enchanted. Both girls are the same kind of resourceful, plucky heroines and both are excellent with languages, which TBH was one of my favorite parts of both of them, only Levine makes up several languages and pronouncing them is the most fun of all the fun things.

"Thank you" in her languages:

Gnomic: .pwich usoch wajezZ
Elfian: Cadsu.
Ayorthaian: Abensa egralve uffubensu.
Ogrese: Forns mnar psySSahbuSS.

 What a clever, interesting writer. I would much rather have children read Ella Enchanted than see Cinderella. Except 'Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo' is really fun. But this is honestly one of the best fairytale updates I've read. Goodness knows what else I've missed thanks to late '90s soap operas. We should all compare notes.

Why is Narrative the Best?: Where Assassin's Creed is on the same level as the Moon Landing

While volunteering at the Frances Willard archives this past Saturday (natch), I found myself pausing MULTIPLE TIMES in the middle of my research on a Kalamazoo WCTU leader because I was irresistibly compelled to stop and have brief, intense discussions with the head archivist about Frances Willard minutiae.

"What years was she in Europe?...ohh, do you remember the ring incident?...That was in Berlin? Well, that makes sense."

When we finally realized we needed to maybe get actual work done, the archivist (Janet) explained the fascination with Willard by pointing out the human need to briefly inhabit other people's lives. I'm calling it a need because it's so widespread. We satisfy it through movies, television, BOOKS, theatre, video games, and puppet shows. And sometimes through reading a ridiculous amount about a woman who was, dare I say, one of the greatest lady figures of the 19th century yes I do dare say.

The history of humans on this planet shows us that we time and time again try to transcend limitations. "Oh, the moon? You think we can't stomp all over that with our giant moonboots? Well THINK AGAIN." "That sounds impossible, so I guess give up thinking about it" is completely foreign to humanity. There are isolated cases of people being dicks and saying it, but for the overall MASS of humanity? No, we keep working at the impossible until we do it.

You get one fully realized experience in life: your own. And that's what you're stuck with. EXCEPT FOR STORIES. Real stories, fake stories, they all let you transcend your own experience and live in someone else's head. Thoughts you would never have, you get to have and then expand upon because of this chance to be in someone else's head. One of the best things about Frances Willard is she left journals that start when she was 15, and end at age 57. It's a thorough immersion in someone else's life (she died at 58).

There has to be a reason humans respond so strongly to narrative. And I refuse to put it down to something as stupidly reductive as escapism. People who dismiss fiction or history in favor of cold, hard science (yeah, I said it) ignore the need to have as much experience in life as possible, or to understand some of the other 7 billion people on this planet a little better before you die. You are not "wasting your life" by learning about others. You're growing your own experience.

The Princeton Club made me feel awkward once

I have a story from 2009 that I am reposting here, because it was truly the most awkward event of that year, and who doesn't like reading about other people's awkward situations. So. Here we go.

______________________________________________


Okay, so my father went to Princeton back in the Dark Ages when it wasn't co-ed and all that. Very long time ago. And he gets e-mails from the Princeton Club in Chicago, although he and my mom are two hours away, so I'm not sure why, but anyway.

He sends me this e-mail and says he wants me to go to what might be the most pretentious event of my year: "Please join the Princeton Club on Thursday, March 19, 2009, for a special evening of a cappella music with undergraduate members of the Princeton Nassoons."

Yeah. At Whosy Whatsits the Third's home. And he makes me go by myself.

My dad doesn't ask me to do a lot of things, and I'll have to put up with this crowd when I do opera, so fine. I take a cab, arrive outside an insanely nice row of houses, all of which have intimidating gates and a complicated set of doors, leaving one a bit unsure which one to open before knocking.

Some blonde, rich-looking woman in her early 40s answers the door. I stammer something about being the daughter of *insert father's name here,* class of '62, and she tells me to go up the stairs and put my coat on the bed. LIKE IN BOOKS AND FILM. I go up their very nice staircase, almost knock their very, very nice painting off the wall, and lay my Coat of an Early 20something-Year-Old on their very nice bed, which is flocked by impressive books in impressive bookcases.

There's still about 20 minutes to the performance, so I have to mingle. Mingling groups had already been established, as the reception was set for 6 and I got there about half past. So I awkwardly stand about before thinking that the best thing to do would be to look busy by wandering from hors d'oeuvres table to hors d'oeuvres table (because oh, they have several). I pick up a plate before realizing with an anguished expression that standing there by yourself, holding a small glass plate with vegetables and miniature chocolate things is one of the saddest things ever. But it is too late to put it back.

I look around, determined to latch onto someone without appearing to latch onto someone (or at least, if it's inevitable, to then plainly state it and reduce awkwardness). I spot a tall student wearing a Princeton tie and blazer hovering at the back of a group and instantly start talking to him. He does something with math and engineering, is a freshman and is utterly surprised that I'm 23 (a running theme for the evening; from now on I shall assume I look 12).

Person #2 is a preppy looking snot who is pleasant enough in conversation, but you can sense the snot within. He interned at the Metropolitan Opera and hasn't declared his major yet. Probably one of those legacy kids that my dad vaguely wished one of us would be. When, during the conversation, I realize he has assumed I graduated from Princeton, I do not correct him.

When -- thank God -- it finally comes time for the performance, we're ushered into the living room, where I am afraid to lean on/touch anything, as any item in the room is probably worth more than my annual salary. And I mean that in a literal, non-clichéd sense. Immediately beforehand, I managed to introduce myself to the only near-deaf person at the party (she has two cochlear implants), who turns out to have studied at both Princeton and Oxford and is now working at the Newberry. And she reads medieval French and Spanish. And is kind of generally brilliant.

Immediately before the 11 Princeton men -- all in matching ties and blazers -- start singing, I meet two girls near my age, one of whom is from New Jersey. I, of course, being the University of Illinois grad that I am, bring up the Jersey Devil (the cryptid, not the mascot) with great enthusiasm. Fortunately for us all, the program begins.

There are not one, not two, but three jokes made about Yale, all of which are chuckled at by the assembled company. All I can think while I'm standing behind the Incredibly Nice Sofa and next to the Incredibly Nice End Table and Fireplace is how much it all reminds me of The Nanny Diaries, which I read something like five years ago and retain only a faint impression of. But it was that exact impression, only with a whiff of academia added.

Everything is fine until they announce that their final song is Old Nassau, and one of the younger girls whispers to me that this is the cultish part of the evening and that I shouldn't be scared. They all stand and, with gestures, sing their school's song. I stand as I've been standing all evening, arms crossed in front of me and occasionally looking down to make sure my cleavage isn't too much, which would then make me not only The Girl Who Didn't Go to Princeton, but also The Girl Whose Bosoms Were Indecently Exposed.

My parents' own snobbery prepared me enough for the small talk of the evening. I felt rather ghetto about my university, but when you're surrounded by 30 to 40 Princeton grads of varying ages, all of whom seem to know each other, as they all frequently go to Princeton Club events, it's a bit difficult not to. But it was all highly educational on The Other Half, and the evening ended with me walking to the El with the Newberry woman, discussing how ridiculously specialized Oxford is and something about the Spanish Peninsula. 

Dickens and Barnaby Rudge (More like Barnaby TRUDGE, amirite?)

I haven't talked about Dickens on here for a while. I've decided in the last few months that my relationship with him can best be summed up with Pink's "True Love":

Yes, exactly.

Most people I've talked to about Dickens feel this way. "Ugh he SUCKED sometimes as a person, but the writiiiiiiiiing." Even the parts where he completely Overwrites are still forgivable because it's Dickens:

In the venerable suburb--it was a suburb once--of Clerkenwell, towards that part of its confines which is nearest to the Charter House, and in one of those cool, shady Streets, of which a few, widely scattered and dispersed, yet remain in such old parts of the metropolis,--each tenement quietly vegetating like an ancient citizen who long ago retired from business, and dozing on in its infirmity until in course of time it tumbles down, and is replaced by some extravagant young heir, flaunting in stucco and ornamental work, and all the vanities of modern days,--in this quarter, and in a street of this description, the business of the present chapter lies.

That is from Barnaby Rudge, and that is one sentence.  But who else would talk about tenements vegetating? One of the best things about good writers is they'll link words you would never have thought to link, but when they do it makes a new kind of sense to you. Dickens is amazing at this. Not only does he skip around with the English language, but he creates characters you care about deeply, even in something as mind-numbing as the aforementioned Rudge, which I've been stuck on for at least three years. For some reason, Dickens thought a book about the anti-popery riots in 18th century England would be the balls to write about.

Rudge is the first of his novels that doesn't (as of a third of the way into it) involve some semi-lovable characters tramping around, meeting quirky figures along the way. Dickens Roadtrips help solidify his reputation of offering a panoramic view of London and its environs, but so far he just seems to be focusing on some core characters who do almost NO roadtripping, which is how his later novels function. But he hasn't quite got the hang of it yet, so it's a not-great transition book instead of being either Fun Road Trip or Srs Bizniz book (Great Expectations is a Srs Bizniz book).

I've thought about abandoning Rudge a few times. "We only get one life, Self," I've said. "You're going to spend precious moments of it forcing yourself to read a novel about the effects of the Papists Act of 1778?" But you know what, yes. Yes, I am. Because after getting through The Old Curiosity Shop, I'm pretty sure every Dickens novel is worth reading. Because stuck in with pale characters like Emma Haredale are lines about "drowsy little panes of glass" and "John Willet, a burly, large-headed man with a fat face."

Damnit, Dickens

To me, sir, you are perfect.

But also still an asshole.

Lit Fest and I've Never Had a Chicago-Style Hot Dog

Jessie Mueller of The Tale of Bessie Bueller won the Tony for Best Actress in a Musical last night, which means I almost unnecessarily yelled at a GRAND LADY OF THE THEATRE. Whatever. In my head she'll always be Edwin Drood's Helena Landless. I reject this Carole King situation.

HELENA LANDLESS FOREVER

LitFest and Midsommarfest were this weekend, which meant walking around a lot of books and walking around a lot of lesbians. Chicago is, as some of you might know, colder than the barren reaches of the Arctic, so when summer comes, we have festivals FESTIVALS ALL THE TIME and if you don't go, what're you doing with your life? RibFest was also this weekend, but I strenuously object to messy foods that are not pulled pork sandwiches or ice cream, so that certainly did not happen. What I'm saying though is -- if you want to come to Chicago, come in any weekend in June and you'll have a million festival possibilities.


I met up with Jesse, who I knew from Twitter. Jesse blogs over at Food Riot, which means upon meeting up at LitFest we almost immediately -- while strolling the booths -- had a discussion about Chicago hot dogs, which it turns out Jesse's written about. I've never had a Chicago-style hot dog, because ew, and I 100% just put ketchup on mine. I HAVE NOW BEEN INFORMED WHY THAT IS HORRIBLE. And the upshot of that is I will now try them another way. Mostly though, I just think Chicagoans are being silly, because hot dogs are not delicious and maybe I WANT to cover up the flavor.

Ugh. I just...how does that look good?

LitFest is put on every year in Printer's Row, which is a block south of the main branch of the Chicago Public Library. In the late 19th century, a group of printers and publishers set up shop there, right by the Dearborn Street Station, which was built in 1885 and served as the terminal for the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway, which is famous because it has a kickass song named after it. Now it's just condos and a couple fancy bookstores I never go into.

I know LitFest has Events happening aside from lots of booths selling books at a slightly discounted rate, but I never go to these. I got things to do. But I CAN walk around and take pictures of books:

There was also a book of racist jokes from like 1904 that I thought was hilarious, but Jesse was a decent human being about. "No, Alice, we probably shouldn't be reading jokes about Germans in 1904."

What's great about THOSE is there's obviously nothing about Nazis in there, so it's just like "Hahaha the German accent's funny."

Essentially: Jesse's great and you should all come to Chicago right now. It's one of like three months out of 12 that it's delightful here -- when we're all lulled into a blissful state of forgetfulness, when cold weather seems but the fevered dream of a madman and surely it could never happen here again....not again.

Winterisnevercomingokbye.

Slate's 'Against YA': Maybe Hate It Less?

The much-discussed book article for this week seems to be Ruth Graham's 'Against YA.' A lot of people are pissed about it.

Some things that should be taken into consideration about this piece:

1. Graham knew it would infuriate people.
2.  It's not easy to write something that attacks a genre that is as ridiculously popular as Young Adult Fiction.

I'm not saying she's therefore right. But it's worth it to keep in mind that she's not coming from a heavily fortified side, while the pro-YA people are. She says a lot of stuff I gut-reaction agree with, which has in turn pissed off some of my friends, but because my mentality seems to coincide with hers, I've been able to sit and think about why I hold some of these opinions and whether they have any merit.

"These opinions" being that no, I don't think adults should devote all or the majority of their reading time to YA. I think it's a limiting and telling choice. I think that if you're a grown adult who spends almost all your reading time checking up on the exploits of some 16-year-olds, you need to sit down and figure out why the hell you're making that choice instead of reading something that speaks to a life beyond high school.

Now. Do those gut feelings that I had when I read this article, and definitely still carry, have merit.

What the discussion seems to have boiled down to is who is this woman to judge what other people are reading? Why did she feel that this article had to be written? What was she hoping to accomplish from insulting and alienating a large number of readers at a time when the country seems to be worrying about the decline of reading? Shouldn't we just be happy anyone is reading anything?

What spurred this article in all probability was frustration. Speaking as someone with little to no tact, control freak tendencies, and a strong dislike of anyone using life to coast, the titanic presence of YA on the literary scene is immensely frustrating. You can ask, what business is it of anyone to judge what another's reading? None at all, on an individual basis. But what Graham seems to feel is frustration not that just one isolated person is focusing their reading energy on books meant for children in high school, but that it's a massive trend that speaks about us as a culture.

People can and should read what they want. But we also need voices that from time to time speak out against popular trends and — even if their opinions are not correct — create discussion. It's easy to go through life without asking why you do the things you do. I've realized in thinking through this issue that I've made a lot of assumptions about why people read YA. Graham's article will cause well-thought-out defenses of the genre to be written, and more understanding on both sides of the issue as people explain their opinions.

 I support readers and I support thoughtful discussion. I look forward to the two coming together in the remainder of the week.

Lady Audley's Secret, The Finishening: "The vice of heartlessness became the virtue of constancy" and other 'Ooooh' phrases

What happened? Lady Audley's crazy except not, Robert basically wasted a BUNCH of time because George is terrible, and everyone's happy at the end except Alicia (poor Alicia).

But you guys...is Lady Audley's Secret...the gayest novel ever?

the dark brown eyes that were so like the eyes of his lost friend.

"You was oncommon fond of that gent as disappeared at the Court, warn't you, sir?" he said at last.
Robert started at the mention of his dead friend.
"You was oncommon fond of that Mr. Talboys, I've heard say, sir," repeated Luke.

AND THE ENDING. OMG THE ENDING. All I have for my Kindle note is "ahahahahahahaha." Not ONLY is everything basically the happiest at the end, but George and Robert and Clara are living together. It's like Victorian Noel Coward and I cannot even handle it. Mary Elizabeth Braddon, I bet 50 bucks you had a lot of gay dude friends and this was for them. This was their Brokeback Mountain. Except way better, because there're meerschaum pipes and French novels.

"I just like thinking about your brown eyes."

George, by the way, is not into it. He's totally the James Potter in this James/Sirius situation. Biggest George burn? "If your friendship could have done me any good, I would have appealed to it."

Not ok, George

There's a whole lot that could be gone into re this book. If we were in an English class together, I would be the SUPER-annoying girl raising her hand in a condescending way and talking about Victorians, madwomen in attics, and the overall lack of female autonomy in 19th century society. As it actually stands:

hahaha words and pictures

But seriously, this book was not that good. It had Moments, but most books have moments? I loved Clara, but she is the most transparent Acceptable Female Version of a Dude I've ever seen. What I really want and am really really really sad never happened is a sequel where George actually went to Australia (make up your MIND, George) and Robert and Clara actually do go searching for him. You know who Robert and Clara could be? They could be like Rick and Evie in The Mummy movies. But with more lying idly on the surface of a frozen fishpond, waiting for someone to pick him up (remember when that happened?).

How do people feel about Lady Audley being shut up forever for her own good? She was kind of, y'know, evil. But there's been so much in recent years about 19th century ladies being locked up just because some dudes decided they were crazy that I'm now completely reactionary about it. And her husband was all "Oh yeah, never tell me what you did with her." OMG THAT IS A PERSON. 

Finally, I'm not tellin' you all that there's unfinished Sherlock/Lady Audley's Secret fic, but there is.

GOOD READALONG, Y'ALL. Our minds and GIF folders are all the richer for it.

BEA 2014: Makin' It Count By Taking All the Books and Eating With All the People

I've wanted to go to Book Expo America since I started blogging. Like Comic Con! For books! Kind of! (not really) I had visions of me zooming around the convention center, eating wisely-packed snack food and stuffing ARCs in my pants.

So this year, I got a press pass. Whaaat. This meant I didn't have to pay monies (which was a dealbreaker as all my money is invested in '90s TV shows right now) and instead got to go and PRESS THINGS.

Was pretty much exactly like this except not at all

I got into NYC at midnight Thursday, took a cab to my brother & brother-in-law's in Astoria, and passed out right after eating a sandwich. The next morning I blearily tried to look completely alert and on top of things and also not like a garbage monster. A skirt was worn. It rode up easily. This wasn't the best for my mile walk, but LADY EMPOWERMENT and so forth, so fine, LET my skirt be way too short for 8 AM. I don't feel awkward about it at all. 

This situation is why after arriving at BEA, I did not enter for 45 minutes. Because Starbucks + bathroom line. I'm not fixing my skirt in the corner like an animal. 

But oh, the sights you see when you enter!

Banners get me every time

This was the line to get in at 9, but because I did the
Starbucks/bathroom thing, there was nothing by 9:30

When you go onto the actual show floor, it's similar to most conventions in that it's booths booths booths. I decided to just wander around, because when I'd looked at the BEA Show Planner, I was ridiculously overwhelmed with the number of publishers exhibiting and it seemed better to pick like five booths I knew I wanted to see, and otherwise just walk around and talk to people.

And walk around I did! With a brief stop to get Tony DiTerlizzi to sign my Spiderwick Field Guide, because it is GORGEOUS, and he is the nicest and we should all marry him and his wife. I'll bet they'd be accommodating.

University presses are kind of my favorite, and they had a lot of them grouped together, the most adorable being University of Nebraska. They had ARCs of Dan O'Brien's Wild Idea: Buffalo & Family in a Difficult Land, which is about sustainable buffalo farming (#nebraska), and they were giving this away with buffalo jerky. Four for you, U of N. 

The Harvard and Yale booths were right next to each other, so I asked if they were just pranking each other all day, but they MOST DISAPPOINTINGLY were not. Or so they said. I talked with Yale, and when they asked what area of historical non-fiction I was interested in, I basically said "Historical...ladies?" and they had NOTHING IN THEIR CATALOG. Which they tried to say in a way other than "All our books are about men right now." But that's kind of a hard thing to rephrase.

MORE LADY BOOKS

I had one unfortunate experience with someone from a prominent publishing house in the Starbucks line (like 85% my fault), but almost every other experience was fan-tastic. The best thing about BEA -- yes, aside from free books -- is the chance to speak with so many publishers at one time. Normally they feel pretty separated, or like a faceless entity that puts out books. Getting to speak to people who could at least fake enthusiasm for what they were publishing felt invaluable. 

There's also a kind of leveling that happens there. No, not everyone's going to have the resources to give away ARCs, but if you have a booth, you can show the books you're publishing, and people can come up and talk to you about them. I talked to some really wonderful small presses. I'm unsure where Thunder Bay falls on the spectrum, but they have an interesting classics series that considers "tactility" (the books are fun to touch):

I also talked to someone from the Canadian press Biblioasis while I was desperately searching for a tote bag. EVERYONE HAD TOTE BAGS. So many! So many tote bags! And there I was without evenly distributed book weight, lugging everything in one giant bag, when Biblioasis came to my aid and gave me a damn nice one after I basically collapsed in their booth mumbling "Tooote baaaag."

They also have really, really pretty books and a suspiciously knowledgeable staff. Damn Canadians.

One of the other benefits of a large book expo is when you deal with people on a face-to-face basis, you can smile really big and be given the new Sarah Waters ARC after you ask the older guy you're talking to who just called you a flower child to sneakily get you a copy 15 minutes early, so THANK YOU, PENGUIN. I am The Most Excited.

I met up with Amanda from Dead White Guys (which she never updates because she is Book Rioting all day every day) and if memory serves, I ate chicken fingers while flailing my arms a lot about the proliferation of male slash fic and relative lack of femmeslash. We also discussed Angelina Jolie. Amanda's one of the first non-YA, non-romance novel bloggers I found back in the day. She gave me proof that there were hilarious, intelligent people doing some book blogging, for which I am obviously grateful.

There was more wandering. I scored a Dickens Studies Annual by seriously just going up to the booth, being like "Oh wow, a Dickens Studies Annual!" and they said "Take it. We don't want to carry it home." I got A Plague of Unicorns from HarperCollins after they'd said they would SPECIALLY LAY ONE AWAY for me because I was missing the Thursday signing. Then I showed up to the booth and they were like "Plague of what? That doesn't sound like a real thing." And I said "YES IT IS LIANE SAVED ME ONE." And finally they opened a drawer and boom:

Liane DOES exist

I also had an awesome conversation with Blair at Quirk Books, where we basically said over and over "Quirk's awesome, right?" "So awesome." Quirk is the publisher you can't not like, or if you don't it's kind of "...but why?" I've had nothing but pleasant interactions with them and I just got their Shakespeare's Star Wars series, which I will probably review super-positively because

The bounty hunter we did meet on Ord

Mantell hath chang'd my mind.

Yessssss.

Some of you might be aware that Emily from As the Crowe Flies (and Reads) is a bookseller and generally awesome person and someone who was also at BEA. We met last year when I was BEA tailgating (read: getting drinks with people who attended for reals) and I was damned excited to see her again. She introduced me to her husband, who illustrated The Cheshire Cheese Cat, and to its author, Carmen Agra Deedy, who I'm now completely in love with.

She also loves Wilkie, so. Y'know.

Emily and I got dinner at a Sri Lankan place, because we are ADVENTUROUS. My food was postcolonial and wrapped in a banana leaf. She got passion fruit something that looked like it had frog eggs in it. Adventure achieved. But honestly, Emily is a delight and if you get to hang out with her, be glad. She radiates a sort of subtly mocking but also kind energy, which I am so down for. We didn't take a picture together because we are dumb.

And, of course, I finally got to meet up with Meghan from Little, Brown. Meghan is now one of my FAVORITE book people, and not only because she took me to a bar (where we acted like ladies). She seems to really get what it is to represent your publisher, which, of course, is that you're very nice to me and talk about The X-Files. No, but she's great and just look at how much we enjoy each other:

The rest of the time was spent eating with my brother/brother-in-law, meeting up with people (including ALLEY from What Red Read), drinking milkshakes and eating cheese fries. I also made my brother photograph me reading to prove that I kind of did it on the book trip (but not really).

Mmm, sort of reading

My bags home were completely full. If you go to New York for this and plan on getting a decent number of books, you should probably bring a rolling suitcase. I SOLELY brought shoulder bags, and carrying those around the airport was The Least Fun. Oh, but if you bring one of those rolling suitcases on the BEA floor, I will yell at you, because whyyyyy.

This is me being picky

Way to be, BEA. May we all revel in your bookish magnificence til the stars fall and Ben & Jerry's core ice cream flavors become readily available (just kidding, that'll never happen. BEA IS FOREVER).

I'm Back and Half-Conscious

I'm back from New York/BEA, People Who Knew I Was There! To others — I was in New York City at BEA! Given that I've been lugging tens of pounds of books from New York to Chicago and have only just now collapsed in my apartment, chicken broth and ginger in hand (I might have picked up some germs in disease-ridden, City That Never Sleeps New York), obviously you should look forward to posts, but not today. Aside from this one. Here's the trip in brief:

You know who you are, sir

I shall see you all tomorrow. Probably.