I finished my book tonight, My Life as a Russian Novel by Emanuel Carrere. I really enjoyed it, but wish I didn't get so effected by thoughts and words. I'm home, alone, unwilling to go out and spend my evening as planned. A short cry, some radishes with salt, pepper, & goat cheese, and a bubble bath seemed more fitting to my mood. My final resolve: there are men out there, who are unable to exist beyond themselves. Well, men might be a little narrow...there are people out there who are unable to exist beyond themselves without the concern about how they treat others. To those that happen to be men that treat women irresolutely and without empathy, concern, dignity, or respect, I wish this on you: that you have a beautiful and intelligent daughter. I can't see a more fitting punishment than loving someone so wholly; someone who feels and is certain to receive the pain you exacted on those you "loved" before.
My favorite parts:
I can't stand being this peevish child who longs to be consoled, who plays at hatred to win love, threatens to leave to avoid being abandoned. I can't tolerate being like that, and I resent you for making me like that.
But I know myself too well. Before long I'd begin to worry that my jealous and possessive middle-class girlfriend was cutting me off from everything and turning me into a provincial old fart.
I would like us to have a second, first time.
I learned that I had lost her and I had arranged to lose her without wanting to, but that was even worse than doing it on purpose.
The book came at a good time, like most things that happen in my life. Ugh....my brain works too much and I over analyize things, but I'm glad Anya died, I'm glad Emmanuel had his baby girl, and I'm glad Sophie made her choice. Now, back to the decadence of fiction!