You Know How Sometimes Your Office Gets Out Early and You Blog But It's Not Really About Anything?

At this moment, I am listening to Judy Garland singing On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe with a beatific smile on my face. It resembles this:

And while I wanted to blog about this and wonderfulness that is Judy Garland ROCKING a song, this is a book blog and it got me thinking: do you have any books that cause you to have such a smile? One of mine is the oft-loved Possession. It's amazingly beautiful. I buy copies to give to people. Well. By "I buy" I mean once I was at a yard sale and they had four copies (???) and I bought them all and slowly handed them out. So I'm not as munificent as that other sentence might make me look.

The other's probably Harry Potter. But that's a given. One of these days I'll find a book that strikes an emotionally resonant chord within the depths of me that doesn't have a similar effect on literally a million billion other people. I AM A UNIQUE SNOWFLAKE.

Reading Rambo: Origins

You know how other book blogs actually, like, review books? Yeah...

 Gather round me, all ye, as I weave you a tale of academic misfortunes, misgivings and fantastical happiness. It is the tale of Alice's Journey Through the Land of Complit.

 

Complit, or, written out by unlazy people, Comparative Literature, is not only the best major possible, but it produces the best people possible (*coughs loudly*). The abbreviation used to be C Lit (thanks, University of Illinois), but someone finally decided that despite the stellar maturity and gravitas those at the U of I came to expect of the undergrads, maybe it would be better all around if they changed it to CWL (Comparative & World Literature). The 'World Lit' part was a giant cop-out, which I will explain in a moment. First, let me take you back! Back to the year 2003! A carefree time when I purchased my first iPod, listened to Christina Aguilera and still wore shirts primarily from Hot Topic.

I needed to pick a major, and it didn't really matter what it was. I've been studying with my voice teacher in Chicago since I was 14, and I was going to continue this during college, so I had decided not to major in opera. I wanted a major where I could take as many languages as possible, and maybe get some reading in, 'cause hey, why not?

I had not one, but TWO professors tell me complit was the path for me. One taught Victorian lit, and one taught Russian lit/cinema. They are both amazing and have the best names ever, but I shall not write them here because I still harbor vague fears left over from 1995 about what people can do with full names on the internet.

Here's the deal with complit, aside from it being awesome: It's way, way better than being an English major. I hate English majors. And yes, it's dangerous saying this on a book blog, as it's likely most of the bloggers I love were English majors, but seriously. It feels like a colossal waste of money. The primary reason I heard for wanting to be an English major? "Oh, I love to read." EHHHHH! WRONG. You love to read, you do it on the side. Almost no one's going to pay you for reading. Plus grad school (which you would probably need, as there's way too much competition even for English people with doctorates) usually makes you hate reading. So you've just destroyed your love. Good job.

If you have definite insights and a new way of thinking about a specific type of literature, by all means be an English major. If you love Jane Eyre and want to marry Mr. Darcy, omg stay away from the field. Please. Please please. *steps gingerly off soapbox*

Being a complit major means you pick two national literatures and read them in their original language. World lit is a cop-out because you don't have to read in the original language. LAME. Super, super-lame. You're in college for a reason. Pick up a new language at least, geeeeeeeeeeez.

I did 19th century British and French lit. I needed to be fluent in at least one other language for opera, and my high school Spanish isn't really that useful. So I learned French, read some Balzac, Hugo and Chateaubriand, and took classes with THE BEST PROFESSORS OF ALL TIME. I also took a bunch of English classes and met some extremely nice, smart English majors. But none of them are currently doing anything with their English degree. Because that's impossible.

"But Alice," I hear you say, possibly in an angry tone, "Your major is equally impractical." Ah, yes, but I knew that going in. I knew there is basically nothing one can do with a complit degree, and the only reason I could major in it was that I was going into the even less practical career of opera.

What did complit teach me?: That complit people are awesome; how to use the explication de texte; how to slow my reading down to the pace of a particularly meandering sort of snail (thus why I rarely review books on here, as I so rarely finish them); and how cross-cultural themes are super-cool.

Finding another complit major is like finding another member of a secret society, as so few are dumb enough to sacrifice their financial future and pick it as their major. There's hugging and general rejoicing, even though the likelihood you picked the same national literatures to study is marginal. You still made the same stupid decision, which makes it a stupidity bond. And those, my friends, are the strongest of all. (probably not)

Wherein I Discuss Literary Agendas and Why They Suck

I don't always do the Literary Blog Hop, because, frankly, it's challenging and requires me to actually think, as opposed to writing about how hot I find certain 19th c. authors. But last week's topic is one of my favorite ranting subjects, and why would I deny myself that? Fiddle-faddle, stuff and nonsense, I'm not scorning that sort of opportunity. What-ho and so forth.

 

Should literature have a social, political, or any other type of agenda? Does having a clear agenda enhance or detract from its literary value?

Here's my deal with questions: they never have a straightforward 'yes' or 'no' answer. There are always going to be areas of grey. But that's boring if everyone says "Well, let's look at several sides of it..." and if it's not a way important issue like nuclear things being proliferated, I think it's much more fun to take a definite stand.

My definite stand is that "literature" with an agenda is shit. I don't care how good the author is; their bias is going to come through and you won't be able to trust that anything they're writing is truth. I hate that.

Any time you write a fictional book to prove an agenda, it's going to be dumb, because obviously you can twist the plot to suit whatever point you want, thereby proving nothing. Ugh.

The examples that immediately come to mind are Dickens' Hard Times and The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. I didn't even finish the latter. I got through about 20 pages and then thought 'Ok, so this whole thing is written to make the workers look as sympathetic as possible and the Chicago meatpacking industry as disgusting and exploitative as possible. No."

It had its merits at the time. Sinclair wanted to inspire sympathy for the workers, and instead everyone got grossed out by the factories and they established the FDA. Responding to this, he said "I aimed at the public's heart and by accident I hit it in the stomach." Touché, sir. But its purpose has essentially been served. The meatpacking district of Chicago is basically nonexistent today, so while conditions he names might be true somewhere, the book is very much Set in Chicago amongst early 20th century Eastern European immigrants. Nowadays it's read mainly as a historical relic (if you will), to say "Oh, this is the book that inspired this or that reform." But not because of any particular literary merit.

I have an article I saved, and I surely could find the reference if I googled a phrase from it, but I'm lazy, so just know I didn't write this:

Grudgingly called a “minor masterpiece” at midcentury by critic Howard Mumford Jones, The Jungle today is certainly regarded as less than that, more likely to be mentioned alongside Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Bad but Important) than The Grapes of Wrath (Political but Good). While writers like Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal took at least a passing and sympathetic interest in Sinclair’s work, now it is nearly impossible to imagine an emergent American novelist for whom The Jungle is an influential or cherished book.

As for Hard Times, I'm never reading it again. When a certain character in the book is killed, it's to serve the message that Utilitarianism Is Bad. Yeah, sure, it's bad when taken to an extreme, but that's the case with pretty much everything, Dickens. Come on. I will, however, admit to having a Louisa Gradgrind playlist on my iPod, which is kind of the best thing ever (her theme song is Kelly Clarkson's Breakaway -- it totally makes sense, go away).

Anyway. Books with definite agendas can be entertaining, but I find that I can't trust them and am almost always on edge while reading them. Everything serves the message, and that, my friends, is lame.

Do Not Be Intimidated By the Works of Literary Prowess I Tackle

I've been reading a book, maybe you've heard of it...THE DA VINCI CODE?

Yeah, so I'm like seven years late to the party. But since I'm reading it post-college, at least I don't have to have every sorority girl in the immediate vicinity come up to me and say "OH you're reading The Da Vinci Code? I just read it and looooved it. Have you read Angels and Demons?"

I refused to read it when it came out because of two reasons. One, everyone on campus had it as their favorite book on facebook, which annoyed me; two, I looked at the first chapter and the writing sucked. It didn't help that I was reading Possession at the same time, which is basically one of the most beautifully written books ever.

So here it is, way later, and I figured 'Eh.'

This book is ridiculous. If it seriously makes you lose your faith, I dunno, man, maybe take some night classes or something. Almost everything Brown says about Church and medieval history is wrong. Yeah, I'm a Christian and could be seen as biased, but, um, no. He's just wrong. The Gnostic Gospels were written wayyy later than the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke), and nobody claimed the Gospel of Mary Magdalene was fricking written by Mary Magdalene. WTF, sir?

Not that I'm angry about this. It's just dumb. Dumb, but entertaining. As long as one allows for total suspension of disbelief -- and hey, I do opera, so suspension of disbelief is kind of the name of my game -- it's a fine book. Meaning an okay book. You ignore the bad writing and clunky cliffhangers at the end of every chapter and just read a nice story with flat characters.

Oh -- I'm not okay with the characters calling the albino dude a monster seemingly because he's an albino. That's not cool, sirs.

I would like to close with a quote from The Office which was on my facebook quotes page back when people still read them:

On Desert Island Books:

Phyllis: The Da Vinci Code.

Angela: The Da Vinci Code. I would take The Da Vinci Code. So I could burn The Da Vinci Code.

Yet Another Guy I Would Marry (Although This One's Dead)

"In short, the almost torpid creatures of my own fancy twitted me with imbecility, and not without fair occasion."

And with that, I fell in love with Nathaniel Hawthorne. I'm not talking about that fricking lame "I fell in love with Tuscany last autumn" kind of love. I'm saying I would literally make out with Nathaniel Hawthorne and have his babies. With possibly some stuff in between.

I mean, I'm really glad he was happily married and all, and I'd still pick John Adams over him if the option presented itself (that's a whole other thing), but were I to be transported back in time to 1850 and he wasn't married, I'd be known as that brazen Illinois girl who was constantly throwing herself at Mr. Hawthorne and tying her bonnet in a shamelessly beguiling manner.

Here's the thing: House of Seven Gables sucks. I read it before I went to Salem last year to see 'the house that inspired the book,' and both the book and the house were kind of lame. My favorite thing about the latter was the cent shop they built onto it for tourists so it'd be closer to the house in the book. Which in turn makes ME lame, but whatever, I can deal.

The sentence I quoted is from The Scarlet Letter, which rocks and is amazing, etc, and if you didn't like it you were probably forced to read it in high school. My high school's sub-par English dept ensured I did not, so I thoroughly enjoyed it and frequently swooned at the writing.

Oh, by "from The Scarlet Letter," I meant "from the introduction to The Scarlet Letter, entitled The Custom-House."

I also attempted to read The Marble Faun when I was taking a class in Avignon and was desperate for books in English. I did my typical Hawthorne swooning early on, but then my hatred for 19th c. English books set in Italy ignited and I tossed the book aside from disgust/boredom about two-thirds of the way through. After doing this, I read an article on how much The Marble Faun sucks, which made me feel justified.

Therefore, all of my love/admiration for Mr. Hawthorne comes from The Scarlet Letter. That and this dreamy painting of him:



Bow chicka wow wow

 Has anyone read The Blithedale Romance? Does it suck? I suspect it does. I mean, he wrote it between the other two that sucked. And it's about Transcendentalism or something, bleah.

Long story short, I have shameful, passionate feelings for Nathaniel Hawthorne and would jump him if I could. Now you all know, without having asked in any way whatsoever. LONG LIVE THE INTERNET.

A Book With A Chapter Entitled 'King Liver and Bile-Bouncers'

I have spent today being emo, but also journeying to the outlying suburbs and purchasing things. Things of amazingness!

My grandfather lived in Geneva, Illinois, which is a small, perfect suburb of Chicago. It's about an hour out on the Metra train. There's a river and tiny shops and a chocolate store and a festival called Swedish Days, as apparently there's a big Swedish presence.

I met up with my second cousin Esther, who directed me to a basement antique shop called The Antique Market. It's one of those places that has stuff from the last 100+ years spread out in a seemingly haphazard fashion. Bakelite dollhouse furniture next to old cookbooks and costume jewelry, etc.

Letting me loose in that kind of place is tantamount to putting Ferdinard the Bull in a florist's shop — he'll just never leave. After I bought my first round of items, I discovered there were two OTHER parts of the store I had somehow missed, and they also had things I obviously needed.

Among these things were three books I am inordinately excited about. Yes, I have over 150 books in my TBR pile. BUT! Who wouldn't buy these? WHO WOULD NOT?

 

Intestinal Ills is by Alcinous Jamison and was reprinted in 1919. It starts off with a poem, one of the stanzas of which is

In the intestinal canal

Waste matter lay, and sad to tell,

Was left from day to day;

And while it was neglected there

It undermined that structure fair,

And caused it to decay.

That cost me FOUR DOLLARS. There's also a chapter entitled The Origin and Use of the Enema, which states, "The British Medical Journal, reviewing the newly published Storia della Farmacia, says that Frederigo Kernot describes in it the invention of the enema apparatus, which he looks upon as an epoch in pharmacy as important as the discovery of America in the history of human civilization."

This is clearly the greatest book of all time.

The other two I'm merely jazzed about because they cost me a combined $14, were both published in the '40s, and both have slipcovers. Amazing. I'd tell you all to go to that shop, but then where would I get cheap awesome books?

I also bought a trio of photographs of turn of the century women, all of which I am going to frame and put in my room. I took a picture of them and tried e-mailing it to myself from my phone, but instead it e-mailed me a photo of my ex. WTF, PHONE? That was NOT cool. This calls for repeated listenings of Gives You Hell by The All-American Rejects. *flounces off*

Disturbing Trends, Books Other People Said to Read, and So Forth

I haven't updated this in too long. Too long! So you're getting a pondering post instead of a riotous, well-thought-out post. At least it's something to distract you from that thing you don't want to do.

There seems to be an odd trend to what I'm reading right now. As is usually the case, I've picked up way too many books at one time. These're the titles:

Waiting for the Barbarians

Devil in the White City

The Monk

The Da Vinci Code

The Face That Stopped a Thousand Bullets

Some might remember the latter referenced in a post where I was searching for the name of a bad urban lit book and then found that one. The title's so amazing I got it from the library. And it is living up to expectations, my friends.

Back in whenever, maybe 2004, I swore never to read The Da Vinci Code. But now I'm older and slightly less dumb/obstinate, and yeah, okay, it's horribly written, and kind of inaccurate with its Church history, but it's compelling, damnit.

Anyway. I don't really get why all the books I'm reading are depressing. Although The Monk is more supernatural/fun-filled/demonic nunnish than depressing, so maybe I mean 'dark.' My favorite type of book, hands-down, is the comedic essay collection. These are the opposite of that. Maybe this is my response to warmth and sunshine. Chicago's pretty much a bummer most of the year, so now that it's finally nice out (it was 55 last week. Yeah. We suck.), maybe this is my inner self saying "You must have balaaaaance! Read unhappy thiiiiiiings!"

In a final, unrelated comment, these're books I added to my goodreads 'To Read' list because of people's blog posts:

The Revisionists - books i done read

My Boyfriend Wrote a Book About Me - Libereading

The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating - As the Crowe Flies

I enjoy and respect all of those blogs. Although I suppose I should be irritated with them for adding to my neverending pile of unread books. In 7th grade, I think I prayed something like "I wish I had things to read," because at the time I was, for some reason, out. And ever since that time, I've had way too much. Which is obviously preferable to way too little.

Book Blogger Hop, Wherein I Reveal the Companion of My Future Life

 

All right. The question for this weekend is:

Who is the ONE author that you are DYING to meet?

 

I'm assuming this cancels out all dead people, so I don't have to try to say something about Charlotte Brontë — although now would be the time when I admit that when I was 16, she was pretty much my imaginary friend and I'd show her around my parents' house and explain what the newfangled inventions were. Yeah. Or maybe 'never' would be the time to admit that.

Of people alive, I'm going to have to go with Steve Hely, author and co-author of How I Became a Famous Novelist and The Ridiculous Race. He also writes for 30 Rock and had a cameo on there as Jerem:

Basically I want to meet him so we can get married. Because that's obviously going to happen. He loves museums, I love museums; it's pretty much destiny.

And if any of you haven't read How I Became a Famous Novelist, DO SO NOW. It's another of the few books I recommend. Well. Few contemporary books. The ending's not amazing, but every other part is. He makes fun of (using pseudonyms) Nicholas Sparks, Patricia Cornwell, Tom Clancy, and modern novels that are considered 'literature.' It's brilliantly funny.

Things Learned from The Scarlet Pimpernel

This stupid book is now triumphantly finished, and I can attest to the following valuable lessons nestled within its pages:

1. The French suck.

2. They also hate Jews.

3. French peasants particularly suck.

4. Aristocrats are way awesome, especially the British ones.

5. Women looking/acting like children is super-hot. (wait — what?)

6. England is beautiful and free.

7. The only lower class British citizen worth mentioning is one who's a devoted servant.

8. The Scarlet Pimpernel is basically Tony Stark v. 1.0.

9. Baroness Orczy assumed her readers were really, really dumb.

10. They apparently were.

The Scarlet Pimpernel Makes Me Ashamed of the Past

So I'm doing a TBR challenge that I found from Salon.com (it's over at Adam's Roof Beam Reader). This challenge is basically what made me create a book blog, so, y'know, blame that. But it's great, because at last count, I had appx. 150 unread books on my shelves. Yeah. I suck. But this challenge should eliminate at least 12 of them! I've stayed on track thus far by reading the easy ones, so I'm five down, seven to go, BUT I'm more than halfway through The Scarlet Pimpernel, so if I finish that soon I shall be WELL on my way to being ahead of the game.

Anyway. Scarlet Pimpernel. This book is ridiculous. RI-DICULOUS. And if you have no idea who he is and for some reason want to read the book and be surprised, read nothing more of this entry. Every brief summary I've read of the movie/book has immeeeediately said who he is, so I'm now regarding it as not-that-big-a-deal.

Okay, so this was published in 1905, which basically explains everything. 1905 in England, so it's not even like the authoress had Wharton to lean on for female 'I'm going to write well' support. Er, unless Wharton was in England at the time, but let's ignore that. The writing is sooo turn-of-the-century British/not-very-good. Nothing makes you feel like you might have some literary discernment as when you read something that kinda sucks and go 'Oho! this writing is bad, I see!'

So for the first like half I thought it was super-dumb, because all it did was talk about those damned French and their murderous ways, and how much Marguerite, the heroine of the piece, is like a child. But also somehow still the cleverest woman in France. WHAT? No. I reject you, 1900, and your ways.

I just searched the word "child" and my Kindle freaked out. "THERE ARE SO MANY USES OF THIS I CAN BARELY LIST THEM ALL" it said in a panic.

Here're some, all in reference to Marguerite:

"a wistful, almost pathetic and childlike look stole into Lady Blakeney's eyes."

"Even as he spoke, that sweet childlike smile crept back into her face, pathetic in the extreme, for it seemed drowned in tears."

"Chauvelin stood beside her, his shrewd, pale, yellow eyes fixed on the pretty face, which looked so sweet and childlike in this soft English summer twilight."

"She laughed one of her melodious, rippling, childlike laughs." (this is on the SAME PAGE as the previous one)

"she held out a tiny hand to him, with that pretty gesture of childish appeal which was essentially her own."

"her childlike blue eyes turned up fully at him."

AGGGHH. Can you imagine some guy, wistfully talking about his girlfriend's childlike eyes? No! Ew. The past is gross. If I ever say again that I want to live at the turn of the century, I'm going to pick up this book, flip to any random page to see what was appealing to people back then and then apologize profusely to everyone living now that I thought that time was better than the present.

However, all this ridiculousness is redeemed by the extreme angstiness that Orczy creates between Marguerite and the Scarlet Pimpernel who is -- wait for it -- HER HUSBAND. Bam! And she doesn't realize this until like halfway through the book. Right before she does, it's super hot and awesome, so if possible, totally skip the first half and pick up right after the ball. Because, see, he loves her, but can't show it. For reasons. So they're all estranged, but totally into each other.

Know what's an even better idea than reading the book? Watching the Anthony Andrews movie version. It's got Jane Seymour and everything. Someone online complained that "the 1982 film focuses primarily on Percy and Marguerite and their relationship. BORING!" I can only assume this is a dude. The action scenes in Scarlet Pimpernel are not that actiony. It's kind of all about 'omg I love you but you're hiding something from me ANGSSSSST.'

To give you an example of how melodramatic/over-the-top this book is, I will close with a line of Marguerite's from 2/3 through:

"God grant it, Sir Andrew. But now, farewell. We meet to-night at Dover! It will be a race between Chauvelin and me across the Channel to-night -- and the prize -- the life of the Scarlet Pimpernel."

That YA Article Everyone's Freaking Out About

All right, so the Wall Street Journal published an article that has made a lot of people upset. Basically it seems to say that YA lit is too dark nowadays and the Youth of America should be reading something else.

The thing is, in the wake of Twilight, there's been a whole lot of dark, shitty books for teens out there. Personally, I don't read teen books. It's basically either 19th c. lit or books for 10 to 12-year-olds. From what I've seen of it, teen lit seems to focus on immeasurably stupid themes. If I ever have a teenager daughter, books with titles like The Lipstick Laws will be banned from the house. I don't have a problem with banning books if they're banned for being idiotic. "I'm sorry, sir, your book is...too dumb. Way, way too dumb. And we just can't have our children reading that, can we? I want smart children in our country, how about you, sir?"

There are going to be people saying things like "Oh, but if dark things happen in real life, shouldn't they be portrayed in literature?" Yeah. Okay. I get where you're coming from. But let's also not forget that teenagers are for the most part highly impressionable morons who don't have things like full-time jobs or Things That Actually Matter happening to them, and therefore they have a lot more time to focus on things that don't. And to make huge deals out of them. If they read hugely dark books, and that's pretty much what's available at Borders, that's what they're going to focus on. And I, for one, don't want a new crop of emo teenagers running around. If emo kids run. I don't think they actually do.

Coincidentally, I was recently at Borders, saw the teenage lit wall o' books, and was so disgusted by the proliferation of black covers and dumb pictures, I had to photograph it. So here is what's available if you're 14 and feelin' frisky in the reading department:

Ewww.

I had an English teacher in 6th grade who told the class that real life isn't like Disney. Things don't usually end happily. I took this to mean that in all my stories, all the characters had to die, usually in gruesome ways, because this is "realistic." I feel like that's what a huge group of YA authors has decided. "Kids today want things that are real; let's write about cutting and sexual assaults." Should those things be addressed? Of course they should. But they have to be handled really, really well (it looks like the book Shine addressed in the article might do just that). And I'm sorry, but I distrust the likelihood of a ton of YA authors (or really a ton of authors of any genre) to do that well. It seems like most are just coasting on a trend, which I find dangerous in this case.

So, okay, do these books have a purpose? Some of them do, yes. And for teenagers who have been victims of hate crimes, or sexual abuse, or who suffer from anorexia, it's great that YA lit can now talk about these things instead of just being about Nancy Drew speeding along in her little red roadster (although who doesn't love Nancy Drew?). But if my son or daughter was like "Oh, I'm reading this book about a boy who's gay and he gets beaten almost to death," I'd say "Mm! I see. Okay. How about this: don't beat kids ever, and especially not because they're different. Lesson learned, done."

No, I don't completely agree with the article. It smacks somewhat of a terrified mom trying to warn other already-terrified moms. But it is making a valid point in that a lot of these books 1) don't need to be as violent/graphic as they are, and 2) a lot of them kind of suck. Actually, I don't know if she makes that latter point really, but it's true. I'm assuming this article and responses to it will cancel each other out, so really this whole entry has been a waste of space. I just get annoyed when bloggers get all fired up about something that reeeeeally doesn't matter and then act like their response is the Second Coming. So this is my petite defense. I refuse to engage in an argument about this, as I have better things to do. Like look up pictures of Rose Byrne (she's so pretty!). Reading Rambo OUT.

Printers Row Yields Unheard of Bounties

Every year in Chicago we have something called the Printers Row Lit Fest. It's usually unbearably hot, but you go anyway, because you can potentially find cheap books.

Basically, booksellers from the Chicago area set up little vendor tents and people browse. And it's hard to walk and people seem fond of standing in the middle of the already-narrow passages between tents and everyone's pretty smelly. They have bands performing and people selling bottled water. It's kind of like Taste of Chicago, only without cops always on the verge of breaking out their riot gear, because the attendees tend to look like this:

I went in the middle of the afternoon, so when it was hottest really, because I have some skills, but thinking logically is not counted among them. I walked around for about an hour, and was holding three books in my hand at a bookstall when the wind picked up and the guy manning the stall  started frantically throwing things in bags while saying "STORM'S MOVIN' IN! WANT A BOOK, BUY IT NOW!"

I thrust my money at him, felt bad asking for a plastic bag, as he was obviously about to lose his shit over this storm and his books, and then trotted off for the El before the storm hit. I passed an Indian wedding on the way, which seemed to have just kinda set up camp on the street. It was awesome.

SO. I am home, and my books are so amazing I need to blog about them. Here they are:

Elizabeth I: Autograph Compositions and Foreign Language Originals

For Queen and Country: Britain in the Victorian Age

Father of the Bride

The Victrola Book of the Opera, 1929

AGH. Okay. A long time ago I got the University of Chicago Press Collected Works of Elizabeth I, which is a fancy book and therefore kind of pricey. This companion volume was sitting on the table for the U of C booth, and when I — just on a whim — asked what the price was, I almost freaked out in front of my fellow Chicagoans when the girl said $5. "But....how?" asked I. "They want people to buy books?" replied the girl.

 Very well then.

So then I find the other three books at a stall where everything was $3. Please note that, while I certainly hoped I wouldn't spend this much, I had taken $100 from my bank account prior to coming there. You just never know when that early edition of Auntie Mame is gonna smack you in the face, and then there you are, high and dry with only the $20 you allocated for book purchases. Such is the stuff regrets are made of.

But no, $3 a book.

Victorian pot lids. In Charleston, SC I saw a pot lid for bear grease. It was one of the best things of my trip.

Yeah, that'd be 1949 edition with slipcover. Three dollars.

If this were the 19th century, I'd be overcome with the vapors. I spent $14 total on all these things. Best day ever.

Oh, I should probably mention that I saw a book called Fallen Women by Mason Long (1881). I wanted to buy it just to display on my shelf, but it was $100. Alas! For another day.

Follow Friday, Where I Inform You of Awesome Blogs

I've never done a Follow Friday post. You can click on Blogs I Follow (er, I think you can, anyway) and pretty much all of them have something awesome about them. HOWEVER. I would be remiss if I did not encourage you to at least check out two blogs of people I know for realsies. They're extremely different from each other, and neither is about books, but they are both super-fun and amazing.

The first is by my friend Katie. Katie works where I work, and she helps stop me from wanting to shoot myself as I sit at the reception desk all day every day. She's funny and wicked-smaht (we all watched the Poehler commencement speech vid, yes? ugh, DO IT right now). Anyway, she writes down hilarious stories from her life, and if they're not hilarious, they're interesting. Side note: I like how 'interesting' has become one of the most boring words in our language. But its true meaning is for REALS here. Because she writes about deadly spider bites and getting peed on on the Red Line. Tell me you don't want to read about that. Tell me. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know my readers were liars. Yeah, that's right. I just called you out (but I still love you all, I'm sorry, let's never fight again).

Her blog is A Writer Must Record the Times in Which He Lives – And Embed a Relevant South Park Clip

The second is by my friend Erika. Erika and I knew each other sophomore year of high school. We went to a Christian school, and that year we were in a play called As It Was in the Days of Noah, or as my brothers liked to call it, As It Wasn't in the Days of Noah (they're clever boys). This was a musical about the Flood. How did we simulate the Flood? Acting, my friends. Also I don't remember. Anyway, this play was really, truly, terribly bad, and kind of unconsciously blasphemous. Erika and I played temple priestesses for the made-up pagan goddess Za. I sang a song with lyrics like 'Come take from us the barren womb/O giver of new life/And cause our seed to multiply/O goddess of the night, o goddess of delight.' I was 15.

To get through this traumatic experience, Erika and I would talk to each other. A lot. I was supposed to stand next to her in our pagan temple scene, and we had a lot of downtime while they figured out choreography for the ribbon dancers (played primarily by our school's cheerleaders). During this time I came to find that Erika was both awesome and funny. Then she moved away and, because facebook did not exist, we lost touch.

Cut to ten years later! We discovered the other one was on twitter, friended each other on facebook, and then I found her blog and went "DUDE, your writing is both sincere and amazing." Because it is. I'm usually uncomfortable with sincerity, but hers doesn't smack of 'This is me trying to be sincere,' but rather 'I am a genuine person.' Awesome. Her husband's in the National Guard, and she's part of a blogging circle of military wives. I think that's the right terminology. Anyway, I end up loving anything she writes, and she should have more readers to appreciate the honesty and insight she brings to her blog.

She is ChambanaChik.

Book-wise, I'm reading The Scarlet Pimpernel, which is kind of not that good? And I'm almost done with Mennonite in a Little Black Dress, which I'm just perplexed by because she never seems to get to the point. Hopefully State by State will be fraught with mystery, adventure, and getting-to-the-pointness (the point being that all our states are special and unique, even North Dakota).