Reading: “The Diary of a Nobody” by George and Weedon Grossmith

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May 9: The Blackfriars Bi-weekly News contains a long list of the guests at the Mansion House Ball. Disappointed to find our names omitted, though Farmerson’s is in plainly enough with M.L.L. after it, whatever that may mean. More than vexed, because we had ordered a dozen copies to send to our friends. Wrote to the Blackfriars Bi-weekly News, pointing out their omission.

May 12: Got a single copy of the Blackfriars Bi-weekly News. There was a short list of seceral names they had omitted; but the stupid people had mentioned our names as “Mr and Mrs C. Porter.” Most annoying! Wrote again and I took particular care to write our name in capital letters, POOTER, so that there should be no possible mistake this time.

May 16: Absolutely disgusted on opening the Blackfriars Bi-weekly News of today, to find the following paragraph: “We have received two letters from Mr and Mrs Charles Pewter, requesting us to announce the important fact that they were at the Mansion House Ball.”

Mr. Charles Pooter leads the ordinary life of the lower middle class in late 19th century England. He is a devout husband, a humble employee, and a respected father and friend – at least he likes to think of himself this way. For some 15 months he keeps his diary, cherishing good experiences, pondering about the bad stuff, and in general wondering how and why the world changes and with it a lot of things he took for granted.

I came across this book when I was actually looking for a birthday present for someone else; since I love literature from the late 19th and early 20th century Britain, I decided that every new day is a sort of birthday and I should not let this opportunity to gift myself with a wonderful piece of literature pass by. Of course there are certain issues like dress codes, vehicles, professions, and vernacular that are hard to grasp nowadays, especially for non-native speakers; however, being “calibrated” by writers like the Bronte sisters, Austen, and Doyle, I found my way around the lesser known expressions and enjoyed an entertaining and funny read.

A cause for concern is the conduct of Pooter’s only son Lupin – actually called William, but opting to only use his second name Lupin –, who does not show the same steadiness regarding his career and way of life as his father, who has been working for the same company for the last 20-something years at the time he is writing his diary. Mr. Charles Pooter does his best to get Lupin back on track, even going so far as getting him a position in the same company he’s working for (this – surprise surprise – does not end well), but we will learn that Lupin follows his own path, skillfully avoiding the average and humdrum life his parents are leading.

It seems evident that Mr. Pooter does not think of himself as a person of great importance, he states so in his diary regarding a possible publication of his writings after his death; however, what he states and what he’s writing about differ to some degrees (as can be seen in the quote above). He may not be important in regard to a certain social rank but this does not mean that there is no order which one has to follow; servants are servants, artists are artists, and respectable men (and women) should know how to act appropriately in every possible situation.

The authors use some references to people and circumstances of their time which can cause initial confusion if one is not that savvy regarding the everyday life of the lower middle classes in Victorian England. But this does not thwart the immense fun of reading this book. If you ever wanted to read a diary that is neither puberty-cliche-ridden, dramatic, and/or your own, than this is a good one to start. First published as a book in 1892, this book has lost nothing of its charm and the likelihood to find traces of oneself in Mr. Charles Pooter’s musings. Enjoy!

 

 

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Reading: “The Blackwater Lightship” by Colm Tóibín

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“I have to keep convincing myself”, Helen said when they got outside, “that this is really happening. You’re all so matter-of-fact about it, but the truth is that he is dying in there and I have to go and tell my mother.”

Helen’s beloved little brother is dying. This brings the family together again – grandmother Dora, mother Lily, and Helen. While Declan has a seemingly casual relationship with his mother and grandmother, Helen hasn’t seen both for years and didn’t even invite them to her wedding. Her mother has never seen her two grandchildren, her grandmother met Helen’s family – her husband and her two sons – only once.

Reading the blurb (which says something like “forced to listen to each other” and “come to terms with each other”) I immediately thought of something blunt like an alcoholic grandmother, a crack-head mother, and two highly traumatized siblings coping with their past in different ways. The last part rings true in some way, but the first part is highly unimaginative, crude, and – thankfully – bullshit. Blurbs usually do their best to convey stereotypes to sell a book (we recognize the familiar), sometimes the opposite (at least for some readers). But I read one of Colm Tóibín’s short stories in The Book of other People, which I really liked, so I wanted to read one of his books. A bargain box at the local bookseller’s gave me the perfect opportunity to do so.

[Spoiler alert]

Helen’s little brother Declan is dying of AIDS. Assisted by his two close friends Larry and Paul, he spends a few days with his mother and sister at their grandmother’s place, an old house close to the sea, and the arrival of three gay men is reason enough to shake up Dora’s world. Nevertheless, this does not mean we meet the average old lady harboring prejudices against homosexuals; Dora is full of prejudices and resentment, so Declan’s friends are just the icing on the cake, at least in the beginning. Dora adapts to the new situation – Declan being seriously ill and dying – fast and seems to cope relatively well with the coming developments; mind you, the emphasis lies on ‘seems.’ For Lily and Helen, the situation is more difficult, since their relationship is strained at best; coming together again after years of not seeing each other and hardly any contact in the light of something as grave as the son/brother dying is a challenge on multiple levels.

“And why is it that he sent you to tell me?”
Helen stared at the road ahead. When she saw a double-decker bus, she thought about asking her mother to make her own way to the hospital, but it was a thought that she did not entertain for long. She softened and tried to imagine what it must be like for her.
“I think he felt that at a time like this we would all forget our differences,” Helen said.
“Well, I don’t notice any difference in you”, her mother said.
“Bear with me, I’m making an effort,” Helen said. She could not keep the dry tone out of her voice.

None of the two knew about Declan’s infection and illness, and especially Lily feels left out after realizing that Declan’s friends, especially Paul, know much more about his health and how to deal with his illness than any of his family, having accompanied him through the various stages of his HIV infection over the years.

Our main protagonist is Helen; though it’s a third-person-narration, the focus lies on her, her history, her issues, and her incapability to deal with her past. We also learn more about Paul, Declan’s friend, who never leaves his side and is the main force regarding his care (much to Lily’s chagrin). But apart from those two everyone else rather seems to set the stage for Helen and the family’s difficult past – at least this is how I felt. And it’s not that I didn’t like it; I loved it. First, when looking back on her past, Helen does not face a ‘huge trauma’ in the stereotypical way of trauma, meaning abuse and violence or the like. Her turning point was the death of her beloved father when she was 12; much of what follows are conflicts that could happen in a lot of families (maybe I feel that way because of my own background in regard to my mother and grandmother, so I’m sorry if this does not sound as serious and insightful as someone else may see the story). So while Helen’s inner (and outer) conflicts are understandable, one does not have to be awestruck how one person can go on with her life in the light of a past as gruesome as hers.
Second, Paul is wonderful. There’s no other way for me to describe it, he is a compassionate, caring, and thoughtful character, the best friend one can have in general and in Declan’s situation in particular. Larry, Dora, Lily, and Declan add their stories and all this together tells a difficult and sad story that will have no happy ending, but also one that shares a certain hope, though I cannot describe this feeling more detailed. I love being so vague…

Hope can feel good, even if it’s false hope. I read this book in two days, and it only took THAT LONG because I needed some sleep. Tóibín is a wonderful narrator, his stories carry a certain atmosphere I cannot specify, but I feel it whenever I read something by him. Nora Webster is already waiting, but I will take a little break before my next Tóibín. It’s an intensive and wonderful reading experience, one I cannot and won’t take lightly, for the best possible reasons.

These heavy boots are not made for walking – meeting Oskar Schell …

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I mentioned it before, Wonderguy gave me Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer as another part of our ongoing series “Goin’ to New York”. At first I was skeptical because I fear the child protagonist: many authors I read (Brothers Grimm, anyone?) use child characters to teach their readers a lesson, and the last thing I need right now is some elaborate lesson brought to me by 300+ pages full of moralizing undertone. But Oskar is a very special child and we got along well. Much better than I had ever expected. Apart from certain quirks that make him all the more tangible (though also at least ten years older at times) and the fact that I too (like most of us) lost someone dear to me, Oskar and I share another distinctive and at times very important feature: heavy boots. 

I read the first chapter of A Brief History of Time when Dad was still alive and I got incredibly heavy boots about how relatively insignificant life is, and how, compared to the universe and compared to time, it didn’t even matter if I existed at all.

I feel ya, Oskar. I do. I will not talk much about the book itself, because this time the connection with one character feels to strong and personal, an aspect that gets more important because of my current mental constitution. I gravitate around how reading about heavy boots makes someone with very heavy boots feel at the moment…
Oskar won over my heart and mind in one passage that describes a situation I know perfectly well, even though not necessarily in this context, due to geographical differences:

It had taken us four hours to get to her home. Two of those were because Mr. Black had to convince me to get on the Staten Island Ferry. In addition to the fact that it was an obvious potential target, there had also been a ferry accident pretty recently, and in Stuff That Happened to Me I had pictures of people who had lost their arms and legs. Also, I don’t like bodies of water. Or boats, particularly. Mr. Black asked me how I would feel in bed that night if I didn’t get on the ferry. I told him, “Heavy boots, probably.” “And how will you feel if you did it?” “Like one hundred dollars.” “So?” “So what about while I’m on the ferry?? What if it sinks? What if someone pushes me off? What if it’s hit with a shoulder-fired missile? There won’t be a tonight tonight.” He said, “In which case you won’t feel anything anyway.” I though about that. 

It’s well in the second half of the book, p. 240, that Oskar describes this inner turmoil, but this was the moment I knew I will forever love this book, and this character. Because I know heavy boots, I know exactly how heavy boots feel, and I know how hard it can be to make something feel even ten dollars, let alone a hundred dollars. Sometimes it feels impossible, way out of my league. And every now and then, this ‘sometimes” becomes ‘often,’ and ‘impossible’ becomes ‘unbearable.’ Because these boots are so heavy I can hardly move. And because I’m a grown-up, I know that I’m on my own, that in the end of the day, I’m all alone in my head, alone with my thoughts, fears, and feelings. Alone with my heavy boots, custom-made for me.
And these days my boots are very heavy. Though I’m looking forward to seeing NYC again, even look forward to presenting a paper and meeting fellow academics and people interested in my field of study, I dread the emotional and physical tour de force it will take until I get there. And I dread all these thoughts, freely floating through my head and messing with my synapses, much more than the fact that I will be awake and on the way for 20 hours. Fear, so much unfounded fear and panic: terror attacks, plane crashes, murder, death, mayhem. All that is possible – hardly anything is likely to happen exactly where I am at the time I am there. After all, this is the rather safe hemisphere of this tormented planet. I’m a rational person, I know that. But I also know panic attacks, anxiety, depression. Or, as Oskar describes it so poetic and also appropriate: heavy boots.

Oskar is actively working to counter his heavy boots, mostly by keeping busy, inventing stuff, designing jewellery and the like. This seems a good strategy though Oskar’s heavy boots and mine are two totally different things and what works for a fictional nine-year-old boy might not work as well for me. I’m not good at inventing and I’m not interested in jewellery; best case scenario is reading, worst case scenario is cleaning, decluttering, or rearranging stuff like there’s no tomorrow. Because a clean and tidy environment helps me to survive my mental chaos, so if nothing else works for me, this always does.
It doesn’t work anymore. Not now. And even though I feel like a whiny kid, I feel so stupid for not being able to get through this like all those times before, I know I reached a limit. I already had a lot going on in the last few months; this additional project, though it is a great opportunity and something I really look forward to, seems to be too much. Too much for my already hyperactive mind, my perfectionism, my aim of juggling different jobs and ventures simultaneously.

So I called my therapist today. I haven’t seen him in 6 years. It’s time for a reunion. 

 

Reading: “The Book of Other People”

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Something different for a change: it was a charity project, in a way (the proceeds were given to a non-profit organization helping young writers); it’s a collection of characters, most of them presented in short stories, some in other forms of narration; it’s edited by Zadie Smith, who – back then – was a rising star and therefore a popular author to choose as an editor (also, I really like Zadie Smith’s work as far as I know it, so this description should in no way seem like a personal of professional attack on Smith as an artist); and it varies heavily in tone and structure (for obvious reasons, being the collection it is), which may be one reason why it received generally positive but also mixed reviews [attentive readers may find most of this trivia on Wikipedia – just like I did, because I cannot remember everything…so thanks aunt Wiki]. Also, as far as I can remember, it was hugely popular back then (nearly 10 years ago?) so I am once again pretty late to the party.

Different stories bring different voices, perspectives, images, languages, and views. Different stories from different authors create even more multifaceted, colorful, vibrant and creative universes (logically). This is the main reason why I usually don’t read a collection like this all at once, because the different voices and styles can at times be irritating; it ‘feels’ different. And this regular change of tones and spirits is exhausting at times, at least in my little corner of the world. Just when you got accustomed to characters and their specific voices and idiosyncrasies, everything changes. All at once. These constant changes of settings and the likes don’t concern that much me when reading a short stories collection by one author; this sort of literary exhaustion only occurs to me when reading collections containing a variety of authors. Because starting a new story by a new author of course brings new experiences. And one can only take so many new experiences on one evening/morning/day/night/train ride/flight/somuchmoreIcan’tthinkofrightnow. Which in itself is a rather trivial – albeit true – observation, but hey, someone has to be a bit trivial around here, so let’s go for it! 

We meet 23 people in 23 settings, lives, worlds. The authors contributing to this collection were asked to introduce a character, tell the story of one person, no matter how. And like in real life, this can be colorful, complex, vibrant, mundane, flat, interesting and shitty. I had some favorites and some I didn’t like. Some were foreseeable but still good, some graced my quiet evenings with a fine sarcastic tone I loved, some were plain and boring. Of course you meet characters that seem familiar; reading one story I realized that I actually had the phone number of the person I was reading about; even more so, I also encountered characters I simply did not understand. As I’m an introvert mess, I always assume this is my fault, since I obviously know too little about (for example) male adolescence to decipher some codes that may otherwise bring me closer to the story; or don’t know enough about the joy of parenting to understand the even greater joy of taking a weekend off from parenting thanks to a shady houseguest taking the kid on a roadtrip. And don’t get me wrong, I really think this is ‘my fault’ since one cannot always work with every voice and every style; some things I simply don’t get because I don’t see it in there (the story, of course). So apart from my intellectual slips and personal tastes, me being the fairness fanatic that I am, I read every story to give it the fair chance to become my favorite. As stated I will not name any favs or not-so-favs, because if someone reading this little piece is even later to the party than I am, s/he should have a fair chance to form their own opinion; besides, as I always like to emphasize: everyone has a different taste, so go find your own favorite story (/stories).

Reading this book was a sort of personal triumph; I bought it eight years ago, I moved it three times without ever so much as reading a single story and I every time I looked at it I thought: “Hey, this sounds soooo interesting, I have to read it on a day off!”
It actually took me three days, because … life. Nevertheless, finally, I met the Other People.

Reading:”American Gods” by Neil Gaiman

 

2017-04-22-23-25-06.jpgYes, I know, there is no need for another sort-of-review of any of Neil Gaiman’s books because there are already thousands of highly qualified writings about his work out there. He is a prolific writer, has a wide, diverse and also devout audience (of which Wonderguy is a proud member) and countless different platform—a lot of them highly professional and influential—have already discussed his numerous works. Still, thoughts are free and unicorns are still a thing, so let me reflect on my personal adventure with Shadow, Wednesday and all the other blokes who are setting the stage for a reading experience that was by far not as smooth as The Graveyard Book (my favourite Neil Gaiman book so far, though I have some more reading to do), but still gave me one of my favorite characters.

First off, I have to confess that I do not “like” and therefore hardly read any fantasy novels. I never read the Harry Potter-series (though I always wanted to read something by J.K. Rowling and A Casual Vacancy made that happen, but that’s another story) or Lord of the Rings  and I was surprised to find out that Philip Pullman was NOT in Independence Day (though: kudos to a fellow atheist, may the bridges we burn light our way…). Apart from an occasional Terry Pratchett I am hardly Neil Gaiman’s target audience, which might be a reason why reading The Graveyard Book, with its comparably small cast and fictional world, was ‘easier’ and much more enjoyable to read than American Gods. Another reason might be that Wonderguy told me to read Norse Mythology  before American Gods to be well-prepared and—truth to be told—this sort of preparation pretty much killed my vibe. I am all for some deeper insight into the backgrounds of stories and novels, but my enthusiasm has its limits and Norse Mythology exhausted these: starting with all the ridiculous names I never had a chance of remembering (for e.g. Gullinbursti the boar, Svadilfari the horse, or inanimate objects like a chain called Dromi)  followed by the mind-boggling number of protagonists, I lost track of the stories most of the time and confused everyone with everything except for the main ‘characters’  Loki, Thor, and Odin. [At the risk of sounding indifferent to fascinating historical knowledge: I’m an atheist which in this context means that religious and mythological symbols and/or characters are interchangeable and mostly irrelevant to me; the Norse mythology may be far more colorful than many of today’s religious symbols, stories and myths, but to me, in the end it is just another ‘metaphysical instrument’ for explaining seemingly inexplicable events and experiences while at the same time using this power of illusory knowledge to control the people seeking help and guidance.]
By the time I actually started reading American Gods I was already exhausted regarding the stories and adventures of Odin a.k.a. Wednesday and his various henchmen thanks to the enlightening ‘research reading.’

But Shadow kept me going. Through all the exhaustive dream sequences and fantastic elements which would otherwise rather discourage me to continue reading a book, I wanted to know what would happen to Shadow. Of course I acknowledge and appreciate the immense research work Neil Gaiman must have accomplished for this novel—no one needs me of all people to state that Gaiman is a master of his craft. Moreover, I loved the stories he tells in small subchapters throughout the novel about how the various gods and mythical creatures came to the US; they feature different voices and perspectives which introduce interesting and captivating insights in how myths and ‘gods’ can be created, transformed, and sometimes even killed off. 
Though the book dragged on at times—at least for someone who is not that much into fantasy—there were of course quite a few surprising twist and turns that made it an entertaining read, not only for the sake of finding out where Shadow’s path would lead him. Gaiman is a great author and knows his way around language, which always makes him a great read, even when delving into a genre one usually avoids (yeah, the “one” is me…).
With Shadow, American Gods features a protagonist that seems familiar, even though I cannot thoroughly explain how and why; he reminds me of Bukowski’s Hank Chinaski, various protagonists in war literature (Joker in Gustav Hasford’s The Short-Timers, Walter James in Larry Brown’s Dirty Work, some of the guys in Tim O’Brien’s The Things they Carried  and Paul Berlin in Going after Cacciato as well as Colby Buzzell’s depiction of himself in the midst of the Iraq War) and probably some others I can’t remember right now. Shadow is the one you want to have with you on a road trip (yeah I know, what a surprising remark considering parts of the book); he is the one you want to ask how to handle the ugly shit—even better, you want him to handle the ugly shit; in short he is the big brother I always wanted. He is THE one invariable in the midst of an ugly and violently changing world—and I’m not referring to the sort of Ragnarok Gaiman describes in  American Gods. Maybe Shadow is in some ways an all-American hero which makes him seem so familiar; maybe it’s something personal in regard to ex-cons in literature, I don’t know. I do know that his character, his story was the reason I finished the book. 

Again, this is in no way a book review; though I work in the field of literary studies, I don’t do reviews here (or elsewhere, for that matter). Literature is art and art has no limits (sort of); different people like different things, that’s all. It’s just another account of my reading experience and reading adventure, this time with Neil Gaiman. It was not the first, it won’t be the last, though it was a difficult one. But it was more than worth my time.

Reading: Jennifer Egan “The Keep”, “A Visit from the Goon Squad”

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 Something less trivial for a change: Jennifer Egan, whom I just recently discovered thanks to wonderguy, who gave me A Visit from the Goon Squad to read. He thought I might like it because I love short stories and he was right. Though of course, it’s not a collection of short stories in the traditional understanding. I read in one review that Egan herself does not like to categorize this book, even though a lot of readers feel the need to know for sure – have the author tell them, so to say – whether they are reading a ‘novel’ or a ‘short story collection’. Tim O’Brien’s The Things they carried is another one of these works that often resist a clear categorization, yet it tells a completely different story.

I love books like A Visit from the Goon Squad, even though they are challenging for me because I am awful at remembering names and those collections of different life stories that work together to tell a wide-ranging story mainly work with a likewise extensive cast. So while I’m all for diving into the lives and stories of different people I’m also all about forgetting their ties to the story and why I’m reading about them because I can’t remember who is who. Egan lets those various chapters and stories dance with each other, like a well choreographed and fluent harmony of moves and interactions, so as to paint a giant picture of different lives that crossed and at times clashed with each other. With some protagonists one may think “well, he/she definitely got what he/she deserved”, not necessarily in a positive way (I will not give away names, because I don’t want to spoil all the fun; also, I can’t remember the names that well…). Then again, the fate of others may take you by complete surprise, as literature should do [maybe not all and not all the time, but you may get the picture). Long story short: A Visit from the Goon Squad is a harmonious composition of life stories that are anything but harmonious, glorious or even positive (in some cases), arranged in a versatile, diverse, and, in some instances, rather unusual tone and style. With  helluvalot of names…

After finishing A Visit from the Goon Squad I knew I had to read more Egan and I decided to go for The Keep next. What starts out as a seemingly ordinary tale of a guy who had to get away from his life for undisclosed reasons turns out to be a much more complex and polyphonic tale about life and what we make of it. Here too, people meet and get know each other, some for better, some for worse, and a surprising twist brings together two (and even more) storylines that initially don’t seem to have any connection at all. There are some  main features of the protagonists who seem familiar in one way or the other, not only in Egan’s writing; failed lives, losers, who don’t want to acknowledge or have not yet realized that their sole accomplishment in life is that they are still alive and breathing. Even though they hardly recognize it themselves, Egan’s failed lives indeed sound like failures; contrary to Willy Vlautin’s ‘losers’ (of whom I will write in another post), they are not lost, trying to fight their way back, but they DO lose, actively participating in their own downfall, and in some cases, fighting their way back, too. Of course, Egan does not limit her scope of characters to people fighting their own happiness; there’s the guy who overcame a deeply traumatic experience only to relive it once again; the mysterious countess who makes being a member of old German nobility seem like being a member of the A-Team (sans B.A.’s jewellery, of course, yet with much more insanity than Howling Mad Murdock); a protagonist who seems to be the epitome of the euphemism “professional teenager”; and a teacher who is overly committed for some unusual and unforeseen reasons. (Oh my, see, I spoiler! Though only because the cast of The Keep is more manageable than in A Visit from the Goon Squad).

As with a lot of other authors, I appreciate Egan’s voice, I can ‘hear her talk to me’ – or worse, I can ‘feel’ her voice -, to sound a bit corny. Not every voice is equally intense and captivating, since we all have different interests and characters. Sure enough, this is no special feature of the author, but rather just an ordinary question of personal likes and interests. So go, read Egan. Delve into stories that are intertwined and autonomous at the same time, life paths that run alongside each other, meet, divert, cross, and sometimes even clash, only to part and sometimes even reunite again.

“Never in a million years” or: ‘shame fics’ seem worse than shame fucks (but they are not!)

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From what I’ve written in some of the blog post before, one may assume I am a sophisticated reader thanks to my academic ventures (*cough*) in the field of comparative literature. Well, sometimes I am. Depending on my mood, my ADHD, the lunar phase, and the position of Jupiter to the last third of my cat’s lowest karma zone, some lucky days I am capable of hiding my nice little face behind the covers of something of worth to the academic and/or intellectual community (mind you, I spared us all the name-dropping of distinguished authors, mainly because I couldn’t think of anyone else besides Susan Sontag right now). But those days are numbered, especially when there’s a lot of stuff going on in my life. So when ADHD is ruling my daily life, I resort to reading rather ‘light’ fiction, as one might describe it. Nice little whodunits, for example, preferably from the franchise of Murder, She Wrote or set in the 1920ies and 1930ies in the UK (probably because this reminds me of P.G. Wodehouse’s works). They call these books  ‘cozy mysteries’, as I found out just recently, and that makes me cringe even more…

You see, the most shocking thing about this is, that I never ever in a million years would have thought that I ever start reading whodunits. We had to read The talented Mr. Ripley and another mystery novel by a local author in high school and I hated it. I read The Judge and his Hangman by Friedrich Dürrenmatt and it bored the hell out of me, even though I like Dürrenmatt. I absolutely and truly hated the stuff, I found it boring, uninspired and a waste of time (especially Tom Ripley). I thought I never again would read any sort of crime or mystery novel. Boy was I wrong.

So, with Jessica (whom a lot of us will remember from TV), Daisy, and however the main protagonist (usually female, of course) is named, it’s always nice, warm and chatty. They make you feel all cozy and comfortable and at the same time solve a murder that is in no way gory or grisly. After all, this is not CSI or Criminal Minds, this is Murder, She Wrote and Miss Marple on the loose. Of course, witnessing a murder or finding a body has its effects on our beloved protagonists, but it’s not like you can’t go on with your life just because you regularly happen to stumble upon corpses. Off they go, head first into the adventure of finding whoever disturbed their tranquil and cozy lives, to bring them down and restore peace and order. And right they are, at least in their setting.  Eventually, everything falls into place and in the end, all is fine and someone nobody cared about is dead. But that’s okay because our heroine found the killer and everyone can feel safe again. Usually written in an entertaining and sometimes slightly humorous voice, I do understand why these books are called ‘cozies’.

I don’t know how I came to like them as much. I watched Murder, She Wrote with my gran when I was a child and I really loved that show, so when I found the books I was understandably thrilled to find some additional material on my favorite amateur sleuth – which may explain this newfound literary love of mine a bit. But how it would go from J.B. Fletcher to Daisy Dalrymple, I can’t really explain (P.G. Wodehouse may have something to do with it, as stated before).

But you need not fear the worst, because I already went through my Sophie-Kinsella-romance-novels-phase nearly a decade ago, after a rather painful break-up. So at least this won’t happen (again and yes, I’m sure about that). Though I like it cozy, neat and nice when reading ‘light fiction,’ that does not include unnecessary and annoying romantic entanglements with no real surprise ( yeah, I know, the concept of ‘surprise’ may be a debatable issue in the cozies as well, but hey, nothing’s perfect). Also, I do not intend to bore you any further with this little ’shame fic’ of mine…but it’s as much part of my life as my struggle to keep my work going and organize myself, so it’s also part of this blog, at least for this one time. And now I’ll go sit in a corner and be ashamed of myself…just a little bit, while reading You bet your Life.