Fiction: “Guilty Pleasures” by Laurell K. Hamilton

Not sure if everyone’s aware, but I’m kind of into vampires. And by ‘into,’ I mean ‘know a lot about them.’ Having cut my teeth on The X-Files‘s episode “Bad Blood,” starring Luke Wilson as a sheriff who may or may not have buck teeth and may or may not be a vampire but certainly has David Duchovney singing the theme to Shaft, I progressed rather quickly through Dracula and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. In fact, it was due to a blurb’s description of this novel as “An R-Rated Buffy the Vampire Slayer” that I purchased this book in the first place, back in November 2003.

Since then, I have read this stupid book three times (this is numero tres). You’re probably asking yourself, “why has she read this three times if she calls it stupid?” Well, let me refer you to my statement at the beginning of the entry for when I attempted to read Wideacre: I am a masochist.

And really, here’s why I chose to read Guilty Pleasures again: a), I had just finished reading Jane Eyre and wanted a little more substance in my brain dessert than the Regency romances I usually frequent in these instances; b) I found myself in the Border’s romance aisle giving serious contemplation to a vampire/human romance (why? WHY???); c) The Vampire Diaries has been on hiatus TOO FUCKING LONG; d) I never actually finished reading this series the last time round, back in 2006 — hell, I didn’t even get to the part where Ms. Hamilton starts transitioning the series from a horror-filled private detective series into a supernatural midwestern philosophy series.

And where else to start, but at the beginning?

Anita Blake is an animator for Animator’s Inc., a supernatural help-center of sorts in St. Louis. Animators are those that can raise zombies. So yeah: Anita’s job is to raise the living dead. It’s kind of gross, killing chickens and feeding the zombies blood, but there’s not a lot of zombie-raisin’ in this book. (The Laughing Corpse, however, is all about zombies. That’s the next title.)

Anita also freelances as the city’s Executioner – she is responsible for the legal execution of vampire criminals. See, in this series, vampires have been ‘out of the coffin’ (same as in the Sookie Stackhouse vampire series, but meaner and more evil) for a couple of years, and are pretty much regarded citizens of the United States. Meaning, vampires are the legal undead — they just can’t vote. St. Louis is a hotbed of vampires, including the Vampire District, where tourists can mingle with honest-to-goodness vampires. Guilty Pleasures is actually the name of a vampire strip club, owned and operated by Jean-Claude No-Last-Name, a vampire who has a special connection with Anita. Mainly, he enjoys pissing her off by calling her “ma petite.” Because she’s short. Which we hear a lot. (Jean-Claude lurves Anita, be tee dubs.)

So Anita goes to Guilty Pleasures as the designated driver for the small bachelorette party, thrown for her friend Catherine, who is getting married. When she’s called out to a crime scene (murdered vampire) and returns, Catherine has been compelled by a vampire as blackmail for Anita to find the vampire murderer. For under the current new laws, vampires are people too, and killing a vampire is murder, not protection (Buffy would have been screwed). So Anita agrees to look into the murder to save her friend. But she’s not happy about it.

Other characters: Phillip, the sweet man who has a thing for being bitten by vampires; Edward, who if Anita is the Executioner, then Edward would be Death himself to vampires – a former hit man who now gets his jollies by killing vampires; Ronnie, Anita’s private detective friend who looks into a red herring for her; and Nikolaos, the vampire master of the city, who is apparently a 1,000-year-old child vampire. So, y’know, Kirsten Dunst in Interview of the Vampire, but even more awful and sadistic. And she scares the shit out of Anita.

Here’s what I like about Anita: she’s tough, and even when her instinct is to run and hide, her … whatever it is takes over. In this snippet, she’s trying to sanitize a vampire bite with Holy Water (look! a vampire story that involves Holy Water and other Catholic artifacts as weapons!), and it’s akin to pouring acid on herself:

If we hadn’t cleansed the wound with enough Holy Water, the cross would burn me, and I’d have a fresh scar. I had been brave above and beyond the call of duty. I didn’t want to play anymore. I opened my mouth to say “No,” but it wasn’t what came out. “Do it,” I said. Shit. I was going to be brave. [222]

But here’s what I don’t like about Anita. And really, I guess, it’s not something about Anita I don’t like, but how Ms. Hamilton writes. I haven’t been bothered to look up to see if this was her first novel (I don’t think it was), but what she does here is try really, really hard to make it sound like a pulp fiction, hard-boiled detective novel. But what happens is that she fails miserably.

Here’s an example:

Valentine was instantly there, kneeling by the body. “What have you done?” He couldn’t see the knife. It was shielded by Aubrey’s body.

“I killed him, you son of a bitch, just like I’m going to kill you.”

Valentine jerked to his feet, started to say something, and all hell broke loose. The cell door crashed inward and smashed to bits against the far wall. A tornado wind blasted into the room.

[...(later on down the page)...]

[Nikolaos] shrieked. “Look at me!”

And I did. I fell into the blue fire that was her eyes. The fire burrowed into my brain, pain. Her thoughts cut me up like knives, slicing away parts of me. Her rage scalded and burned until I thought the skin was peeling away from my face. Claws scrapped the inside of my skull, grinding bone into dust. [214]

So, so many things wrong up there. So many things.

And then there’s just grammatical errors:

We were standing just below a landing, a turn in the stairs. There have been times when I wished I could see around corners. This was one of them. The scrape of cloth against stone, the rub of shoes. [72]

This paragraph could be fixed with a semicolon, and a couple of verbs. Because what did the scrape of cloth against stone and the rub of shoes signify? Were they heard? Were they the precurser to, I don’t know, someone following them up the stairs?

This one bothered me from its pure laziness:

Theresa strode over to us in a swish of cloth. “Enough of this, animator. He can’t do it, so he pays the price. Either leave now, or join us at our … feast.”

“Are you having rare Who-roast-beast?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s from Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. You know the part, ‘And they’d Feast! Feast! Feast! Feast! They would feast on Who-pudding, and rare Who-roast-beast.’” [155]

I just … what’s the point of going through the whole spiel? I can see being a wise-ass and asking about rare Who Roast Beast, but going through the actual lines from the show? If you’re so damned scared of that vampire, Anita, why are you running your mouth off about random shit? It just bugged me. (Obviously.)

I’ve already started The Laughing Corpse, and the writing is kind of better. Not by much. But the book is longer than Guilty Pleasures, so we’ll see.

To get back to the vampires: these vampires are legitimately scary. Their powers aren’t completely divulged in this book, but: they can compel humans to do their bidding; they can create human servants by progressing through a series of bites and other rites that are kind of skimmed over; they can control their appearance to others using mind-control (having typed all these out, I see that these vampires are more mental and telepathic than ‘normal’ vampires); they enjoy doling out pain and using humans to satisfy their needs.

In short: they don’t fucking sparkle.

Grade for Guilty Pleasures: 2 stars

Fiction: “Jane Eyre” by Charlotte Bronte

This is the third time I’ve read Jane Eyre, but the first time I haven’t had to read it for a class. I had to double-check that, because I could have sworn I’d read it a couple of years ago on my own, but looking through my records (yes, I keep records, hello, have you met me, I’m kind of anal) I haven’t read Jane Eyre since before 2006, which would have made the last reading for my 19th Century British Novel course in 2004.

I’ve picked up a couple of books that I’d once read for a class, and it’s interesting; much like when I read Tess of the d’Urbervilles a couple of years ago, I remember the themes that we discussed in class, but I don’t feel the need to analyze them again, which is nice. I recommend that if there was a book that you remember reading in high school or in college that you kinda liked, pick it up again. Tonight’s entry for Jane Eyre will not be discussing the beautiful versus the sublime (which was a major theme in the class), but more about Jane’s sense of individualism.

Of course, if there was a book you hated reading in high school, for the love of God, don’t pick it up again. I did not like Holden Caulfiend in Catcher in the Rye back in junior year, but it’s been over ten years; maybe now, he won’t seem so whiny and phony. However, I hated – haaaaaated – Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad. If I ever get the whim to read that again — that’s like, the number three symptom on my list that designates I’m suffering from a severe mental illness.

Um, enough about that. Let’s talk about someone who actually suffers from a mental illness!

The story of Jane, if you don’t know: she was an orphan, beloved by her uncle Reed, but sadly for her, Uncle Reed died, leaving her in the care of Aunt Reed, who does not like her. At the end of her non-empathetic rope, Aunt Reed sends nine-year-old Jane Eyre off to the bare-bones charity school of Lowood. After half the school’s population dies of typhoid and malnutrition, the school gets taken over by characters who are more sympathetic to the needs of poor young girls, and Jane thrives, eventually becoming a teacher. But then she begins to get antsy, and advertises for herself as a governess. She is hired by Mrs. Fairfax, household manager of Thornfield. Jane moves to Thornfield to take care of Adele, a French girl of about ten. After being there a few months and starting to get antsy again, she is going to town to mail a letter when a man on a horse happens to fall off just as she passes. She helps him back on to his horse, continues to town, mails her letter, and when she returns she learns that she had helped her heretofore unknown landlord, Mr. Rochester, get back on the horse.

Mr. Rochester takes a fancy to Jane, which she tries to ignore, as it wouldn’t be proper. He has friends come and stay with him, including Miss Blanche Ingram. To Jane’s eye, it appears that Mr. Rochester intends to marry Miss Ingram. She does her best to ignore the blossoming romance, and finds an escape when she learns that her old Aunt Reed is on her deathbed. She returns to her childhood home, learns that she had an old uncle who wanted to make her his ward, but Aunt Reed was a bitch and wouldn’t let him contact her. Aunt Reed dies, Jane returns to Thornfield, and Mr. Rochester proposes marraige to her, and she accepts.

Meanwhile, weird shit has been happening around Thornfield. Mr. Rochester was almost burned alive in his bed; weird noises emanate from the third floor, and there’s this weird servant, Grace Poole. Oh, and some dude visiting almost got stabbed. So on the morning of her wedding, the ceremony is interrupted by a lawyer from London who announces to the small wedding party that Mr. Rochester is actually already married! To a crazy woman who’s been living in the attic!

So Jane runs away, lives destitute for a few days, and gets taken in by a poor, honest family named Rivers. Through some crazy random happenstance, they learn that they are cousins — how awesome is that? Except that St. John Rivers, the male cousin (and if I remember correctly, St. John is not pronounced Saint John, but Sinjin) wants to be a missionary, and wants Jane to be his wife. Not because he loves her, but because he thinks that’s all she’s good for. (Don’t worry, I’ll get into that later.)

So in another crazy random happenstance, Jane is thisclose to telling St. John she’ll go to India with him when she swears she hears a voice. She packs her shit, hires a coach to take her to Thornfield, finds the mansion burned to a crisp, but finds out that her beloved Mr. Rochester has retired to his secondary mansion (because everyone should have a secondary mansion) after his crazy wife nearly killed him in another fire, and now he’s blind and an amputee. And they marry, have a child, and eventually, he gets his sight back.

Okay. I just reread those paragraphs, and it sounds very trite and melodramatic. It’s not. If you’ve never read Jane Eyre before, please don’t take that stupid little summary as gospel. It’s much more exciting and yes, melodramatic. I picked up Jane Eyre again for a few reasons. Number one, there’s a new adaptation coming to theatres in March, starring Mia Wasikowska as Jane (she was Alice in Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland last year) and Michael Fassbender as Mr. Rochester (and he was apparently in Band of Brothers and Inglorious Basterds), and I wanted to reread the book before seeing it (as I tend to do). Also, I’m beginning my research into Victorian literature, style, and other things, and I have a couple of examples of near-Gothic description and atmosphere that I’ve marked and can return to. But honestly, I was looking for a romance where I knew everything would turn out okay in the end (because I’d read it before), but for a while, thought it might not. Or something. I don’t know. But I remembered the romance between Jane and Rochester being deeper and more passionate than that of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy (SERIOUSLY DON’T THROW THINGS AT ME).

Speaking of that: I know that Virginia Woolf at one point tried to compare Pride & Prejudice to Jane Eyre, and decided that Jane Eyre was the lesser of the two, that the emotions in Jane Eyre were what ruined it. I say thee, nay. That’s what makes Jane Eyre better than Pride & Prejudice, and that’s why I’ve read Jane Eyre more times than Pride & Prejudice (zombie-infested versions don’t count).

I also remember reading the book in that 19th Century British Novel class — or maybe it was the Victorian Literature class — but regardless, I read somewhere that in the grand scheme of things, Jane and Rochester couldn’t marry in the middle of the book not because of Bertha Mason in the attic, but because they weren’t equals in terms of status. So when Jane comes into an inheritance in the last third of the book, then they should be able to marry. But what Bronte does is punish Mr. Rochester for his youthful indescretions and his more recent lies by making him blind and an amputee. And that … it doesn’t feel right to me. It’s probably different to me reading it now than it would have been to more pious readers back in the 1850s, but … is losing a hand that much of a step towards equality? That just seems to me too — uh, you’ll pardon the phrase, but heavy-handed. He has to lose his house, his sight, and a limb? Dude, Charlotte — give the man a break.

But the thing that I like most about Jane Eyre — the character, not the book — is that she is probably one of the first truly independent women in literature. And I’m not usually one to go finding feminist literature — I read historical romances, for cripes’s sake. But while Elizabeth Bennet is witty and smart and can take care of herself when needed, Jane always takes care of herself. Jane doesn’t even attempt to hide her sarcasm behind witticisms; she’s just outright sarcastic. She wants to know where she stands as an entity and as herself, not as property of Man. And above all, she thinks:

And now I thought: till now I had only heard, seen, moved–followed up and down where I was led or dragged–watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure: but now, I thought. [309]

This scene followed the great disclosure of Bertha Mason in the attic.

In an earlier example, Rochester asks her to sit still while he’s trying to propose marriage to her:

‘Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild, frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation,’

‘I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will; which I now exert to leave you.’ [266]

Once engaged, their relationship is full of back-and-forth conversation and cutting insults. And it’s the type of relationship I’d love to have: bantery.

‘Look wicked, Jane; as you know well how to look; coin one of your wild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me you hate me–teaze [sic] me, vex me; do anything but move me: I would rather be incensed than saddened.’

‘I will teaze [sic] you and vex you to your heart’s content, when I have finished my tale…’ [295]

Contrast that with her relationship with St. John, who intrigues Jane, but does not inspire the same type of love and respect that she had with Rochester.

I found him a very patient, very forbearing, and yet an exacting master: he expected me to do a great deal; and when I fulfilled his expectations he, in his own way, fully testified his approbation. By degrees, he acquired a certain influence over me that took away my liberty of mind: his praise and notice were more restraining than his indifference. I could no longer talk or laugh freely when he was by; because a tiresomely importunate instinct reminded me that vivacity (at least in me) was distasteful to him. I was so fully aware that only serious moods and occupations were acceptable, that in his presence every effort to sustain or follow any other, became vain: I fell under a freezing spell. When he said ‘go,’ I went; ‘come,’ I came; ‘do this,’ I did it. But I did not love my servitude: I wished, many a time, he had continued to neglect me. [419]

St. John also does not see her as an independent entity; she is not someone who has free will, or any personal inclinations. In St. John’s mind, God (his Sovereign) is who decides the purpose of everyone’s life; free will has nothing to do with it. Neither do emotions:

‘God and nature intended you for a missionary’s wife. It is not personal, but mental endowments they have given you: you are formed for labour, not for love. A missionary’s wife you must–shall be. You shall be mine: I claim you–not for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign’s service.’ [424]

And here is where Jane’s innate sarcasm shines through:

‘Oh! I will give my heart to God,’ I said. ‘You do not want it.’

I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in the feeling that accompanied it. [328]

And now, the It’s All About Alaina section.

Here is proof that Blanche Ingram is nothing more than the first incarnation of Lucy van Pelt:

‘Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding.’ [203]

This relates to a joke between a friend of mine (name of Mason), and the phrase “Check Means Done.”:

‘Ever since I have known Mason, I have only had to say to him “Do that,” and the thing has been done.’ [227]

CHECK!

Finally: Dearest Jane, I totally empathize with this statement:

I tired for the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it, and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space; ‘Then,’ I cried, half desperate, ‘Grant me at least a new servitude!’ [89]

For as I come close to the nine-year mark of tenure at my place of business, I too at times feel the need to cry out, half-desperate, “Grant me at least a new servitude!”  But then I sigh, pull on my bootstraps, and keep on going. 

Grade for Jane Eyre: 4 stars

2010 Recap

In 2010, I read 34 books.  That is one less than I read in 2009.  What is up with that?  How am I getting worse at this?

Oh well.  Here’s a complete list of what I read in 2010, as a handy reference.  Any marked with an asterisk (*) is a title I had not previously read.  Enjoy.

January
1. E is for Evidence by Sue Grafton
2. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
3. The Dead Man’s Brother by Roger Zelazny*
4. Beauty by Robin McKinley*

February
5. Beguiled by Shannon Drake*
6. Casino Royale by Ian Fleming*
7. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls by Steve Hockensmith*

March
8. The Danger by Dick Francis
9. Deja Dead by Kathy Reichs
10. Waiter Rant by Steve Dublanica*

April
11. Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain
12. Bound and Determined by Shayla Black*
13. The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler

May
14. The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman*
15. Decadent by Shayla Black*
16. Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins

June
17. Holiday in Death by J.D. Robb*
18. A Rogue’s Game by Renee Bernard*
19. The Pirates! In an Adventure With Communists by Gideon Defoe*

July
20. Living Dead in Dallas by Charlaine Harris*
21. Feast of Murder by Jane Haddam
22. IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas by Chuck Klosterman*

August
23. The Sherlock Holmes Mysteries by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle*
24. A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood*
25. Beat the Reaper by Josh Bazell*
26. Boomsday by Christopher Buckley*

September
27. Death du Jour by Kathy Reichs
28. To Ruin the Duke by Debra Mullins*

October
29. Alice I Have Been by Melanie Benjamin*
30. Indemnity Only by Sara Paretsky

November
31. Barely a Lady by Eileen Dreyer*
32. A Stillness in Bethlehem by Jane Haddam

December
33. The Corpse Wore Pasties by Jonny Porkpie*
34. My Booky Wook by Russell Brand*