This time I tried to be strategic. I used little IKEA Travel bag thingees, and yet I still have somehow not brought enough t-shirts, packed too many shoes and not enough bras. I dunno.
One serious problem with the packing this time around is my books. I'm determined to do a ton of reading, because lately I haven't been reading much fiction... I put in a mega large, satisfying order in with Chapters before leaving and everything arrived before we split... Problem is books are heavy. I know, I know, Kobo is the answer, and I'll get that sorted for the next trip, but in between all of our other running around, it just didn't seem feasible to get it organized this time.
So, I'm left with a mountain of heavy books. I've decided to tackle them strategically by reading the heaviest first. This has induced a fair amount of panic reading, because I have to burn through the biggies as quickly as possible. This had meant that other than running up mountains and eating wonderful food, I've been reading:
First book to tackle was a 600+ pager: Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White. I'd ordered it because The New Yorker had an interesting review of Wilkie Collins recently, I'd read and loved The Moonstone,and, respect where respect is due - the man made a serious career for himself with the first name "Wilkie."
(Don't read any further if you don't want to be spoiled, although really, can you be spoiled on a novel that is over 150 years old?)
Turns out this book is not great... Too long, too coincidency, too preachy, too Victorian. I love me some Dickens every now and again, so I think the real nub of my irritation stems from Collins' treatment of Marian Halcombe. She's this absolutely capable and kick-assy character who gets to narrate the juiciest bits of the novel, and then Collins just shunts her to the side and gives her a crappy ending as the lame ass companion to that ineffectual milksop, Laura Fairlie...
Marian Halcombe is totally awesome -- she says what she thinks, manages her horrible uncle-in-law, climbs out on a roof in the pouring rain to eavesdrop on the dastardly villains and has this repressed, but completely sizzling sexual chemistry with the overweight, white-mouse loving scoundrel, Count Fosco. There, wouldn't you rather read 600 pages devoted to those two than to a fainting, wispy drip who is treated like a child throughout the novel and morally righteous wanker who is actually turned on by the childlike drip? Marian Halcombe takes care of business, but she sacrifices everything to be the perpetual third wheel to Laura Fairlie and Walter Hartwright? I don't think so.
In my version, she ditches Laura in the mad house (really woman, if you can't get it together to plainly articulate what's been done to you, maybe you should just stay in the asylum), gives Hartwright a sharp kick to the shins, just because, ugh he's so annoying, poisons the inconvenient Countess Fosco and takes off with that fat bastard to some marvelous country where they appreciate her brilliance and her mannish hands (Honestly, Collins referred to her great big man hands at least a dozen times).
To be fair though, "Sir Percival Glyde" is a really fantastic villain's name.
Next thickest book on the list? Thomas Hardy - Far from the Madding Crowd.
First book to tackle was a 600+ pager: Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White. I'd ordered it because The New Yorker had an interesting review of Wilkie Collins recently, I'd read and loved The Moonstone,and, respect where respect is due - the man made a serious career for himself with the first name "Wilkie."
(Don't read any further if you don't want to be spoiled, although really, can you be spoiled on a novel that is over 150 years old?)
Turns out this book is not great... Too long, too coincidency, too preachy, too Victorian. I love me some Dickens every now and again, so I think the real nub of my irritation stems from Collins' treatment of Marian Halcombe. She's this absolutely capable and kick-assy character who gets to narrate the juiciest bits of the novel, and then Collins just shunts her to the side and gives her a crappy ending as the lame ass companion to that ineffectual milksop, Laura Fairlie...
Marian Halcombe is totally awesome -- she says what she thinks, manages her horrible uncle-in-law, climbs out on a roof in the pouring rain to eavesdrop on the dastardly villains and has this repressed, but completely sizzling sexual chemistry with the overweight, white-mouse loving scoundrel, Count Fosco. There, wouldn't you rather read 600 pages devoted to those two than to a fainting, wispy drip who is treated like a child throughout the novel and morally righteous wanker who is actually turned on by the childlike drip? Marian Halcombe takes care of business, but she sacrifices everything to be the perpetual third wheel to Laura Fairlie and Walter Hartwright? I don't think so.
In my version, she ditches Laura in the mad house (really woman, if you can't get it together to plainly articulate what's been done to you, maybe you should just stay in the asylum), gives Hartwright a sharp kick to the shins, just because, ugh he's so annoying, poisons the inconvenient Countess Fosco and takes off with that fat bastard to some marvelous country where they appreciate her brilliance and her mannish hands (Honestly, Collins referred to her great big man hands at least a dozen times).
To be fair though, "Sir Percival Glyde" is a really fantastic villain's name.
Next thickest book on the list? Thomas Hardy - Far from the Madding Crowd.
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