I apologise to those who are awaiting my post on metaphysics. I will definitely write it. (:
I've finally read the more than 500 pages of the Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood. She, Carter and Le Guin are the contemporary female authors that I presently enjoy, though I honestly say I have not read too much of Le Guin (though have read enough to like her).
Characters in this particular book are so real that I felt myself living through them. The annoyances, irritation, anger, hatred, betrayal, every single one. And Canada doesn't seem like an alien country at all, in fact, it is so very Malaysian, in its universal rendering. The era in which 2/3 of the book was set in has a very modern feel to it, though one is reminded of the woman's condition back then, as well as the encumbrance of seedy aristocracy. So very antebellum and even a little bit Tennysian. Frigidity, sex, love, non-love? Where can they all fall into? Can the blind love the one whom he cant' hear, but merely feel? Or can one feel trusting enough in love? And why exactly is it the gilded cage?
Atwood is not everyone's cup of tea, but her prose flows like a bridge that is bracketed at various spots, unbroken, broken and mended, interrupted by many tales that have to be told. They are poetic and poignant, and memorable. How I wish I could write like her, without being bogged down overinflated adjectives and adverbs that seem to be the bane of most mediocre writers of descriptive prose. Would help in my copywriting, which is not only selling an idea, but also peddling of words. A form of high-class whoring.
Anyway, have a good weekend to the rest of you. And I'll be back later next week.
