"If People Don't All Experience Emotional Satisfaction And Deprivation In The Same Way, What Claim Can There Be For Equality of Need?"

Man, I have been staring and re-reading the title of this post for about 5 full minutes trying to really wrap my head around it and trying to come up with a good answer. And while in my previous post I noted that I probably didn't give July's People a fair enough read, there was certainly parts of, like statements like that, that would catch me re-reading and thinking about. Or a passage, further along the same page discussing death as a relative place based on an individual's place in the economy, a "purchase", describing the wealthy white architect who could afford the private jet in which he crashed and then describing the elderly tribal grandmother who would work the land, bending lower and lower to the earth until she returned to it. It was certainly a novel about race that is teeming with tension when, just that quickly, roles are reversed.

The story is about the Smales family and their servant July. The Smales are a liberal, upper class, white family in Johannesburg (Bam, Maureen, Gina, Victor, and Royce) who are forced to flee the city during a (fictional) violent civil war overturning the system of apartheid (note: Nadine Gordimer wrote the book prior to the end of apartheid, therefore, this was her fictionalization/prediction of what she thought might happen) and are aided by their loyal black servant of 15 years, July. He helps smuggle them out of the city during the fighting and takes them to his village a couple hundred miles away. Once there, they are now the minority and have to live according to July's rules and the ways of the village in order to survive. During this time they confront the immediate loss of comfort, living in huts with dirt ground and bathing in the river, and the fact that many of the other villagers (mostly the women) don't necessarily want them there. And they are living in absolute fear, knowing that many friends and other upper class whites in Johannesburg were killed, so knowing that if they are discovered, they may very well face the same fate.

Amongst all of this is the incredibly complex changing relationship they now face with July, in particular, Maureen (as she is the main narrator). The change in power dynamic, and the levels of trust that both of them have to demonstrate, which is tested many times. In the city as the head of the household, Maureen was generally the one who provided the orders to July, and now, in his tribe, gender roles are far different, which Maureen must adjust to. And back in the city, July had a mistress which Maureen knew about, and now back in his tribe, July must trust Maureen to maintain that secret from his wife. They must also entrust the keys to their truck to July, which could potentially be their only lifeline to getting out of the village if something were to happen.

The racial dynamics during the time of apartheid in South Africa are so well explored in this book in such a simple way and again, there was so much tension. You wanted to believe that because these characters knew each other for so long they would trust each other and everything would work out, but there was absolutely no certainty in that. And while the book was relatively short, it was the kind of book where I felt like every word was so much more deliberate than I was probably giving it credence. Again, the fact that I read this in a half-assed, less-than-focused way probably didn't allow me to get as much out of it as I probably could have. But I still found it engaging, nonetheless.

So after July's People, as I said, I devoured The Goldfinch. With this President's Day off, maybe I will get around to writing that badboy up too.

Oh and yeah, I'm only a couple stories into Dorothy Parker, and she's already a heroine. There is going to be a LOT that I'm going to have to say about her.     

"Today Is Only One Day In All The Days That Will Ever Be"

And so here we are in February. Of 2020. A full 7 months since my last post. My 40th birthday has come and gone. No big reflective post about the origins of this blog. Examining how far I've come. How far away from the original goal I fell. For those of you keeping track, which I know is no one, across the 4 lists there were 326 books. When I started the blog in July 2012, I had read 73, leaving 253, and as of my 40th birthday on September 14th, 2019, I had only added an additional whopping 36 books to that total, leaving 218 left to read (a clerical error added an additional book that I had originally excluded from the list, thinking I had read, but I had not). 

So the goal of this blog that I started with such aplomb and happy ambition was not met. And the simple thing would be to just strikethrough that 40 and change it to 50! Yay! And maybe I will. I certainly won't stop reading all of these classics. Because these lists and these books are as much a part of how I  make choices, not just of what to read but what I do in my everyday life and how I spend my free time, that I truly can't see myself living without them. So while I may not have met the lofty goal, the quest goes on because it has to. 

And I'm sorry if this whole post sounds a little Bitter Betty. I feel like it should be so much more reflective of this whole endeavor that I've undertaken. But the last 7 months have just kicked me so hard in the teeth that there's a reason not just for the absence in posts but the lack of reading. And a lack in reading makes my heart hurt. And all of the other things going on that have affected the lack of reading make my heart hurt too. Mostly getting sucked into the void of 70-hour work weeks from about August onward to December. When I left my last job it was for largely the same reason and I swore I would never do this to myself again. Because it affects every part of my being and of my life. I become this opposite version of myself that I loathe. This version who bitches about work to anyone who will listen even though I know they're only pretending to feign interest and concern. But I can't stop myself from the verbal fountain of complaining because I am stuck in the drowning suction where the only thing that exists is the waking hours of work and the few hours of sleep in-between. And if I try to grasp for some sympathy from even a partially listening ear, I tend to go for it, even as I see the boredom reflected in their eyes as I prattle on about the failure of team members to provide input on time, gigantic changes in scope, blah blah blah. 

And so that was where my life existed for almost 6 months. While July's People languished on my nightstand. And I know I read it. And I'll give a recap. But I didn't give it a fair read, because it was during such a low time for me, even when I was able to devote time to it, like on an airplane. My mind was elsewhere, and not in a good place. 

So explain to me how, following July's People, I read The Goldfinch, an almost 800 page book in 2 1/2 months, while I was also still dealing with all of the 70-hour work drama bullshit. I guess the heaviness somehow matched exactly how I was feeling, and it was hard to put it down. There were so many phrases and passages that I dog-eared because I wanted to save. Suffice it to say, yeah, I absolutely adored it. I didn't want it to end. I've had it on my mind for DAYS since I've finished it. And I may actually read it over again. And I very very rarely do that, only because there are so many books that I want to read. But I just loved it so much in such a heartbreaking, lovely way. 

And again, maybe the melancholy of the book just caught me at the right time. The grey loneliness of winter and the shit time at work all wrapped up in the painting and the excessive drug use and death. I don't know. 

Anyway, I'll write a recap for that too. But up next, I'm finding it hard to make a choice of what to read next. I'm going to try Stories, by Dorothy Parker because she may be a good fit for how I'm feeling lately and to at least keep me on track with the reading lists. But we'll see Maybe I'll come around and have a more positive attitude about 2020. Until then, here's a snippet from The Goldfinch to leave you with. 

"That life - whatever else it is - is short. That fate is cruel but maybe not random. That Nature (meaning Death) always wins but that doesn't mean we have to bow and grovel to it. That maybe even if we're not always so glad to be here, it's our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, while keeping eyes and hearts open."