The World Is Too Much with Us

I really enjoyed this novel. At first I was shocked that it was about teens and pre-teens having sex to make babies. It was just, WHOA! But like all great dystopian novels, it reeled me in. I do think this is the first dystopian novel I’ve read that actually wasn’t dark. It was light and funny at times. A major plus!

Throughout the reading, I switched back and forth on which type I would be. At first, I’m thinking, no way. I would totally be a churchie. And then I thought, well, wait a minute, I’m not a churchie now…why would I be then? So, I thought…would I be an amateur or professional? An amateur seemed like they bumped not only for the pregg, but also for the pleasure. But a professional did it only for the money. Could I really have sex with a stranger? Hmmmm…And then all I could think was, OMG why am I thinking like this? I don’t know that I would be any of them. I’m 28 right now and it really made me think about if I do want kids now and how I would feel if the world’s population was low would I do it just to repopulate the world? I love when books make me think!

The VERY bestest part of the book though, was the language. I love when author’s make up their own language. It was a little hard at first, but once you got it, it was easy. I caught myself thinking like that a few hours afterwards. It reminded me a lot of Scott Westerfeld’s Uglies series, which was awesome, but Bumped had it’s own twists to the language.

Note to Author: Please, please, please…tell me that there will be a sequel! You totally left us hanging!

The Author To Her Book

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did’st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array, ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam.
In critic’s hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door. 

I had a customer check out this awesome book called Honey, I Love and other poems by Eloise Greenfield. I couldn’t help, but take a look inside when I saw it. There are awesome sketches inside as well as awesome poetry. The customer talked to me for a minute about the book and let me kind of read through it. I found this awesome poem:

Way Down in the Music

I get way down in the music
Down inside the music
I let it wake me
take me
Spin me around and make me
Uh-get down

Inside the sound of the Jackson Five
Into the tune of Earth, Wind and Fire
Down in the bass where the beat comes from
Down in the horn and down in the drum
I get down
I get down

I get way down in the music
Down inside the music
I let it wake me
take me
Spin me around and shake me
I get down, down
I get down

The beat is awesome!! Reminds me of Langston Hughes poetry and how he would recite his work with jazz in the background. Love it!!

Irish Nocturne

Now the grey mist comes creeping up

From the waste ocean’s weedy strand

And fills the valley, as a cup

If filled of evil drink in a wizard’s hand;

And the trees fade out of sight,

Like dreary ghosts unhealthily,

Into the damp, pale night,

Till you almost think that a clearer eye could see

Some shape come up of a demon seeking apart

His meat, as Grendel sought in Harte

The thanes that sat by the wintry log—

Grendel or the shadowy mass

Of Balor, or the man with the face of clay,

The grey, grey walker who used to pass

Over the rock-arch nightly to his prey.

But here at the dumb, slow stream where the willows hang,

With never a wind to blow the mists apart,

Bitter and bitter it is for thee. O my heart,

Looking upon this land, where poets sang,

Thus with the dreary shroud

Unwholesome, over it spread,

And knowing the fog and the cloud

In her people’s heart and head

Even as it lies for ever upon her coasts

Making them dim and dreamy lest her sons should ever arise

And remember all their boasts;

For I know that the colourless skies

And the blurred horizons breed

Lonely desire and many words and brooding and never a deed.

Alone

        From childhood's hour I have not been
        As others were; I have not seen
        As others saw; I could not bring
        My passions from a common spring.
        From the same source I have not taken
        My sorrow; I could not awaken
        My heart to joy at the same tone;
        And all I loved, I loved alone.
        Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
        Of a most stormy life- was drawn
        From every depth of good and ill
        The mystery which binds me still:
        From the torrent, or the fountain,
        From the red cliff of the mountain,
        From the sun that round me rolled
        In its autumn tint of gold,
        From the lightning in the sky
        As it passed me flying by,
        From the thunder and the storm,
        And the cloud that took the form
        (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
        Of a demon in my view.

First of all, I have to say that this book is dark. When I first started reading it, I though this kind of reminds me of myself. I like to read. A lot.

     “In the same way that perfume captures the essence of a flower, these shelves of books were a distillation of my life.”

I read this, and thought, “YES! That’s exactly what my books are to me. ” Yet, the woman in the story goes a little above and beyond this statement. She reads so much, she loses her boyfriend, her life and her future.

Sure, the books goes on to say that she eventually goes to library school and becomes a director of a library. But she is obsessed with her books. Her life is only for her books. I mean, I love to read, but dang. I have a life outside of my books. Shoot, I even blog about what I read. But it doesn’t consume my whole life.  I still live in reality. For me reading is for enjoyment. I love immersing myself into someone else’s story, feeling what they feel and seeing the world through different eyes. But it only lasts for the time it takes you to finish the book. You have to come back and live your life.

The most shocking part of the graphic novel, is the end. She is so caught up in wanting to work for this night bookmobile…she takes her own life. It turns out that the only way to become a librarian for the bookmobile and work at “The Library” is if you are dead. So she kills herself. And now she has her own night bookmobile. Um…CREEPY! I felt like I was reading something from the twilight zone.

In the afterward, Niffenegger does explain that this idea came from her teenage years. She said that she used to dream a lot that she had died.  This was one of those dreams. I honestly still don’t know what to make of the book. I don’t know if I like it, but it sure does make me contemplate my own reading habits. I know for a fact that I would NOT commit suicide over my love for books.

 Does that make me less of a reader? Am I not as passionate about books as I thought I was or should be?

The Shirt

Acquainted With the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.

I have out walked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,

O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.