Oh dear gracious God. Get a load of this: I'm actually reading a Jane Austen novel. And what's even more frightening, despite being a healthy boy with good-old testosterone laden (and sometimes driven) mind, I actually like it. The book in question is 'Northanger Abbey', and, as I've learned from the liner notes, is quite a bit special in Austen's line of work, being the only novel which pokes a lot of well-deserved fun at the then-chic gothic novels while being a witty, even sarcastical reflection on romantic novels -- and that is quite a feat, considering it was born in the age of romantic novels, and penned by none other than a lady.
You know what, I usually tend to hate anything that is officially declared 'romantic'. Oh, no, not the natural phenomena, like a beautiful rainbow, or an especially dramatic sunset, because only fledling fools attribute them any relation to lace, long deep looks, heaving and generally things that make schoolgirls with too much free time damp and moist at various places. No, I'm more of a 'natural' romantic in the way a well-pointed sad songs gets me, and sometimes I tend to slip into daydreaming about escaping this place and... Well, anyways, Jane Austen is declaredly one of the more famous romantic writers, therefore I should have quite a lot of aversion towards her creations. Still, as she has a profound in-depth knowledge of the femine soul, she is logically the best suited person to make gentle, loving fun of it. And if there's something I most definitely like -- come on, having Vonnegut, Palahniuk and Pratchett as my favourite English-language penners is a dead giveaway -- is irony. If in large quantities, all the better.
So far, I'm one-tenth into the book, but it's getting better and better, and I wouldn't be lying if I said that I was immediately hooked by the opening chapter which attacks then-vogue romantic clichés with such tongue-in-a-cheek vim & vigor, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. Attagirl! What heights of satirical venom this book might reach in both gothic & romantic nuances, I still have to see.
Speaking of romanticism, you know, like romantic poetry, it's been quite a while since I last had any writing done, besides this blog, of course. Probably sinking into such a philistine lifestyle with only a few jarring endeavours to prove my foolhardy independece left its rusty mark on my creativity, too. But, alas, what is there to write about when one is modestly happy with his life? Know what, I was always on the point to stress that happiness is for living it through, it's mostly only the negative feelings & thoughts that are worthy of committing to paper (or disk, this being the modern age). But what the hell, I've got shitloads of work to do, gotta earn hard cash, as renovating a flat in Valhalla ain't that cheap, either. Being a demigod helps you not -- can't really get mortgages on semidivine powers alone.
Ah, on renovation... Last weekend I had the occasion to burn through a lot of cash, which I suitably rose to. Now I'm poorer with about $300 and richer with none less than three bookcases, two working desks, two rugs (with stoppers) and a roll of cane blinds. Splendid!
On the past weekend... Hmmm, lots of fun... was promised, what forgathered was slightly less, but rich in tones of hangover and a slight feeling of guilt and stupidity, shaken and stirred with physical joy. Well, don't wanna say too much about it, but one of the high points of Saturday was the moment when I got stuck at the base of a massive fireworks... Never have I stood so close to the launching points, and guys, it was quite a thrill. It was nice, too.
But not romantic. Not one smithereen.
