Monday, May 30, 2011
Now that I'm dead I know everything. This is what I wished would happen, but like so many of my wishes it failed to come true. I know only a few factoids that I didn't know before. It's much too high a price to pay for the satisfaction of curiosity, needless to say. Since being dead -- since achieving this state of bonelessness, liplessness, breastlessness -- I've learned some things I would rather not know, as one does when listening at windows or opening other people's letters. You think you'd like to read minds? Think again. Down here everyone arrives with a sack, like the sacks used to keep the winds in, but each of these sacks is full of words -- words you've spoken, words you've heard, words that have been said about you. Some sacks are very small, others large; my own is of a reasonable size, though a lot of the words in it concern my eminent husband. What a fool he made of me, some say. He got away with everything, which was another of his specialties: getting away. He was always so plausible...
I thought The Penelopiad was well-written. It was creative, compelling, and easy to read. (I'm not so sure you'd even need to be all that familiar with the original myth.) I liked it. I'm very glad I read it. It was definitely an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon. But I'm not sure that I loved it.
© 2011 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews