The Pleasure of Eliza Lynch: A Novel by Anne Enright

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
very evocative, Enright kind of taps into that dreamscape that is one of the trademarks of South American writing (see Allende). Her narrative flow can be almost too discursive at times, though -- I found myself almost unsure of what kind of traumatic events had occurred, and the disordered chronology didn't help, either.



Still. Excellent.


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A Pet Peeve: Appraise vs. Apprise

Contrary to popular belief/popular utility, these words are NOT interchangeable.

appraise :

Etymology:

Middle English appraysen, probably from Anglo-French *appreiser, from a- (from Latin ad-) + preiser to prize, praise

Date:

15th century

1: to set a value on : estimate the amount of <appraise the damage>
2: to evaluate the worth, significance, or status of; especially : to give an expert judgment of the value or merit of <appraise an actor's career>

apprise :

Etymology:

French appris, past participle of apprendre to learn, teach, from Old French aprendre

Date:

1694

: to give notice to : tell apprised him of his rights>

synonyms see inform

People at large and in general: Quit saying "I shall appraise you of the ongoing events" because it's just fucking WRONG.

I was going to write more, but I didn't.

For the past three or four years I've gotten the daily "Writer's Almanac" in my inbox every morning. I used to read it religiously, as I took my morning coffee and began looking over the work to be done for the day. [Ed. Note: new rule: one adverb per sentence. Per paragraph, if at all possible.] But lately they've piled up and my pack-rat soul can't bear to trash them. It helps that my webmail account holds a plethora of messages, so I put them away for a chance to read the rest of them, some afternoon when it rains and I'm not motivated to be productive. Usually, months' worth of W.A. emails pile up before I look at them, shuffled away in a file in my email account.

But tonight I've just gotten back from drinking heffeweizens with the bluegrass band that will be staying at my house, and I'm too restless to actually settle down just yet. So, instead, I opened my latest W.A., and found (for once, it feels like) a note that tugs a bit at the heartstrings. It's the part about how Melville and Hawthorne used to live near one another, and how their writings improved and even became more prolific during the peak of their friendship. I'm not a fanatic about either of their works -- I'm kind of a contemporary/post-modern lady -- but I chew my fingernails at the thought of not being able to write these days, and the idea of two writers prompting one another to be productive by virtue of proximity makes me sigh with envy. Time was when my friends and I would pass works back and forth for criticism (or preferably, praise) and to not be working on something was rare. For my own good, I'd almost pay some of my writer-friends to move near me, or for me to move to be close to them. It would be interesting to see what I'd write these days.



At least my dearest of dear old friends will be here soon. The Dirty Hippie (who isn't dirty, but is assuredly a hippie in the most traditional sense of the word) is coming to visit for a couple days starting Tuesday, and between the cooking and the drinking I'm wondering if there won't be a literary discussion or five. I can't wait.

It's not "it's", you idiots, it's "its"!

a brief rant:

The anglophonic world has now gotten so bad about using its/it's in the correct order and context that I am starting to get confused when I read sentences in which the possessive/conjunction is used incorrectly. I have to stop and stare at it, muttering "it's...it is" after which I can go on reading and mentally bemoaning the state of English grammar in this world.

addiction v. aggravation

Okay, so, right now I'm kind of thinking that life would be easier as a heroin junkie than as a graduate student. Because I'm currently at the end of my rope -- it reminds me of the panflute flowchart on toothpaste for dinner. If you're addicted to smack, life's kind of like this:

Do I have heroin?
--No.
Do I want some, yes or no?
--YES.
Should I get some?
--YES!

and case closed. No more deliberation*

As a graduate student, life is a little more like this:

Do I have a paper to write?
--Yes.
Do I want to write this paper?
--Yes, in a general "let's be proactive" sort of way.
Should I write this paper?
--YES!
Great. How?
--oh, piss.

Therein lies the rub. How, oh HOW will I ever get a coherent thought out of my head? I've got twelve handwritten pages of quotations and questions to myself, and not a sliver of a sentence to be had for it. Jumpin' jesus. If anyone remembers how to write good papers, hit me up. I forgot a loooooong time ago.


*Dear heroin addicts/former heroin addicts/people who care about heroin addicts: please do not give me any grief about this particular analogy -- it's just poetic license. I know life as a junkie is harder than that...the needles, for one thing. Ai.

poem

Ode On The Things My Last Lover Left Behind Him

I have never met nor had such a man for scattering himself
Through someone else's life.
It is the usual collection of odds and
Ends;
Medecine, lovenotes, angry words, and clothing
Things left with the expectation of reunion and return
Revisiting in this cold and foreign city.

Half-resentfully I cling and hoard these rags and relics.
I don't know why.
When they are gone, once I have sent them back or out or away,
the relationship will be Officially Over.
Even in the seven shaded grey and shadowed back-of-my-mind.
This is surely why his things still linger in corners, and yet

The minute I stepped across the boundary
And put the distance of three states between us,
it should have been clear that even the currencies of comfort and illness
Would not be enough to buy me back again.

No Hill for a Climber (oh, how I wish I were a Climber!)

So that's one mantra you could pick up at my house. I prefer our family crests' motto, which is shorter, sweeter, and more to the point: "Per Ardua," which means "Through Difficulties." After a while, I get tired of the difficulties, though. I am sick of fighting through every battle, of facing all the setbacks that appear to come along with "real life." I don't think I'm cut out for real life, honestly. I would rather be institutionalized, diagnosed with some gentle disorder which would confine me to a quiet bed in a big white ward, maybe with a window, and lots of books. I probably wouldn't be allowed to go to the bathroom by myself, but small price, right?

It's been one of those "awwww, jaysus" days. Even though I enjoyed my meeting with my professor (I always do; he's usually fun and encouraging and I usually feel better about myself after going to see him), I didn't get that vibe and it makes me nervous when I think it could be based on what he thought of my paper. If he thought anything about my paper that I thought about my paper, then he's not thinking good things. My paper was pretty crappy. And he gave me an article to read, so I took it with me, but it fell out of my pocket without me noticing. Which is why you shouldn't stick your papers in your pocket, rolled up in a tube. You're bound to lose them. And I didn't notice that until after I noticed that I'd left my purse at his office. I had no idea where the papers could be; anywhere on the road between O'Neill Library and Connolly House (that delicious bastion of intellectualism; it's the most awesome house ever), and it was windy as all get out and the papers weren't stapled, so there was no way to tell where they could have been. As luck would have it, I'm walking back over to the House and in front of me I see a guy pick up a sheaf of papers from the corner of Lawrence and Beacon. That's it, I thought, he's got them, and they're all together---amazing! So I chased him down and he gave them back to me, and then I went up to get my purse. In the meantime, I set up the two-day interview, but when I got back to the library to study, I found myself falling asleep for an hour and waking up in a very unhappy frame of mind. I HATE that feeling. When I got home, I found out that one of the people I was counting on to give me sound advice about the upcoming interview isn't going to be around all next week, and I won't be able to see him. Sigh.

Perhaps this is some kind of cosmic lesson to me to learn how to do things on my own. My friends can't support me forever, so I'd better figure out what I'm doing. Like, now.


Shit.

I look at him:
His eyes are not
like my eyes.

I turn from him:
He is not
for me.

I kiss his mouth:
His hands slide.

He is not
perfect,
but he will do.