Friday, November 11, 2011

11/11/11

Okay, I know I've already blogged enough for one weekend, but I'm trapped in the ketchup and mustard room for an hour because Clint's watching "Grimm" in the living room, and I can't watch it.  I'm a huge baby.  I got through the first minute of it, but once the girl started shrieking in the background because she was being tortured by whatever wolf-creature whisked her away, my stomach started rolling and I had to get out of the room.

Change of subject.  I'm currently reading Crossed by Ally Condie (sequel to Matched), and I am really enjoying it so far.  It is completely different from the first novel.  Matched was more light-hearted, shallow (in a cute way) and teen-agery, although it did get heavier towards the end.  But this one dives much deeper into the characters' pasts, and their current motives.   It's not that the story is incredibly riveting or action-packed...in fact, much of it is slower-paced.  But it's thought-provoking and intriguing.  Unrequited love in a tolitarian society just makes for a beautiful story.  And considering that the novel is geared toward the young adult audience, I'm surprised by how many quotes from the book come across as pure poetry.  Take these, for example:
And it is strange that absence can feel like presence.  A missing so complete that if it were to go away, I would turn around, stunned, to see that the room is empty after all...

The picture frightened me and thrilled me in some vague way--the sky was so spectacular, the land so beautiful and dangerous, so full of heights and depths.  I was afraid of the vastness of a place like that.  At the same time, I felt sorrow that I would never see it.

Because in the end you can't always choose what to keep.  You can only choose how you let it go.
This next one is a little bit more than just one little quote.  It's a conversation between the male protaganist and a smaller child, both who are fleeing from the society:
"Do you know how to paint?"  Eli asks.
"A little."
"How?"
"My mother taught herself, and then she taught me," I say.  "My father used to come here and trade with the farmers.  Once, he brought a paintbrush back for her.  A real one.  But he couldn't afford any paint.  He always meant to get her some but never did."
"Then she couldn't paint," Eli says, sounding disappointed.
"No, she could.  She used water on rock.  Her paintings always vanished in the air."
"Then how did you know what they looked like?" Eli asks.
"I saw them before they dried," I say.  "They were beautiful."
I love that conversation.  Love love love it.  But I really don't know why.  I'll have to get back to you on that one.

Oh my gosh, it's 11:11 at night!  I have to post this right NOW so I can officially have a blog entry at 11:11, on 11/11/11 (yes, I realize my life is sad if I get off on ten "1s" in a row).