book review: the marriage plot

The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides

When I first heard about the release of this book, I was delighted. I adored The Virgin Suicides, with its rhapsodic language and the mystic way it portrayed such a dark idea. So after waiting for weeks to get Eugenides' latest novel from the library, I have to admit that this one was quite a disappointment.

The first thing I must say about this novel was that the writing itself didn't disappoint, but its lack of plot did. The  story follows three college graduates in the 1980s who are all in love with one another, respectively. First, there is Madeleine Hanna, a charismatic young English major with a soft spot for Jane Austen. Her boyfriend, Leonard Bankhead, is an enigma of sorts who prefers a more scientific than romantic outlook on life. The last side of this triangle is Madeleine's 'friend' Mitchell Grammaticus, a religions enthusiast in love with Madeleine who decides to travel to India to get her out of his head.

The story reads almost like a documentary of these three young peoples' adventures: filled with interesting nuances of their lives, but many of these details end up feeling unnecessary and irritating. The novel is basically a very in-depth character study of these people, and perhaps because of that it's hard to take a liking to them. I personally disliked both Madeleine and Leonard as characters, and the only parts of the book I truly enjoyed were the parts with Mitchell and his spiritual journey. Obviously, it's difficult to like a book when you dislike the main characters, which is probably why I had such a problem getting through reading it.

The book was teeming with references to different authors, philosophers, religious icons and the 1980s. It felt like Eugenides was almost desperately trying to remind the reader that yes, this book is set in the 1980s please don't forget that because of all the references to pop culture. I was honestly surprised that he felt he had to do that for whatever reason, because The Virgin Suicides was an effortless portrayal of the dreamy 1970s. It didn't enhance the story at all.

Despite all that, I did really enjoy the writing, although it got pretentious at times. There were some particularly beautiful parts that make the book worth reading. It takes a lot of time to get into the story, but unfortunately, even then it doesn't pick up too much from there.

Would I recommend it? It depends on the person, really. If you're interested in literature, mental illness, or religion, give it a try.

Rating: ★★★☆☆

fantastic mr fox screencaps

on school & grades & The Future

after becoming so incredibly frustrated with a chemistry assignment i've had weeks to do, i was shouting at my mother about how it didn't matter, this grade won't account for anything, it's pointless! and she responded with it doesn't matter, you're right! what matters is how you work, and the effort you put into it!
and i responded that it still didn't matter because this chem project will have no profound affect on my life.
i used to like school, i really did. i was cleaning out a dresser in my bedroom full of old assignments from elementary school and i was shocked at how creative i used to be. that was when i put effort into things, because i wanted to have fun.


but now none of it seems worth it. i'm doing course sign-ups for next year and after putting down mostly standard-level classes, i can't seem to figure out when i started to stop caring. probably in sixth grade, when i started thinking about how poorly John Lennon did in school, and look how he turned out: depressed, addicted to drugs, and wildly successful. and then eventually dead. but my logic was that at least he had done something with his life. it occurred to me shortly after establishing this theory that perhaps George Harrison would have been a better example.


either way, i think that intelligence shouldn't be measured by the letters on a piece of paper. in fact, i got good grades last term (mostly a's with two b's in chem & gym), but i don't even remember putting any effort into classes that weren't art or English, which brings another thing up: how i've always known exactly what i want to do with my life. it's always been my goal to attend university in England, get at least a master's degree in English, and then become an editor for novels, get married, and then eventually moving back home to the States. when i really think about it, it's less of a dream or a goal than a necessity to one day accomplish. despite my total apathy towards education, i feel as though i will never be happy if i don't end up doing those four things. they're literally what keeps me alive: just the prospect of those achievements is enough to smooth away the rough spots of suicidal thoughts. 


so basically i am wondering if there is a way to drop out of school but still attend university.

i don't even recall writing this

& i thought how lovely to be loved
when they’re gone by their own hand or
by their own cigarettes,
so many people can whisper to one another
‘oh i loved her’
‘he helped me’
‘i miss him’
and never having seen their face
and when someone’s lying on their floor
and they worry they’ll never love anybody
as much as they love him
the man they never saw
she wrote on her hand,
i miss you
i love you
please come home
but gone away was he

too bad so sad
oh i loved her
he helped me
i miss him

pixies

sometimes you buy a record and it makes you awfully nervous because at first you don’t like it, but if you go to bed and listen to it the next afternoon, it sounds better. it still makes you uncomfortable though, the sound not sweet and breathy like your other albums
i think music ought to do that once in a while though
it should make you sit up and inch towards the edge of your chair and shift and wait until the grating guitar stops
it should make you think,
you know?
or maybe it’s better if no one knows at all.

an old piece of writing

i used to be afraid of escalators because i thought if i fell i would fall forever.
and then i was afraid of deep water and not being able to see the bottom of the ocean because i thought i could disappear into the dark folds of the sea
oh, i feared anything that i didn’t know much about.
i was drunk on knowledge for years, intoxicated by the smell of encyclopedias and the black ink marching along the thin pages.
i was scared of oncoming traffic, and of long division, being able to see people’s ribs, dancers, pointy shoes, molasses, not being able to do anything, becoming paralyzed.
i was afraid of attending the cinema because i worried i wouldn’t like the film, and my money would have been wasted.
the realization came slow, like a rainy morning with no sunlight, that the fear was not something i needed, though my body seemed to thrive on it
i melted away from terror
i was lonely, but i was happy, for a while anyway.

i am motivated to do nothing but sit inside and watch the cars go by, alongside the jews in their tall hats. and i wish singing didn’t mean you had to make sound.