slammerkinbabe: (book whore)
I am rereading Federico Garcia Lorca for the first time since high school. (In English this time, which is doubtless contributing significantly to my comprehension.) I remember from high school that he had a very complex and idiosyncratic system of symbolism in his work, full of striking images presented in unusual and Highly Meaningful ways. Unfortunately I didn't remember much of anything about it after a decade's break from his stuff.

I am happy to say that in the process of reading my way through Federico Garcia Lorca: Three Tragedies (containing Blood Wedding, Yerma, and The House of Bernarda Alba -- all of which, I believe, are subtitled Hoo Boy But These Women Are Crazy), I have managed to reassemble what I believe is a reasonably full decoding of Lorca's symbolism:

Black = Death
Green = Death
Silver = Death
Red = Passion? ...nah Death
Still water = Death
Running water = Death
Sea water = Death
Moon = Death
Horses = The simultaneous inevitability and futility of perseverance in the face of Death
Flowers (all) = Death
Anything Else That Happens to Come Up in the Course of a Work by Federico Garcia Lorca = Death

I don't worry about that last one too much, though, since you almost never encounter it.

Srsly. I like Lorca's stuff, find it completely and weirdly compelling, but... yeah. Death death death death death.

Death.

P.S. I miss my high school Spanish teacher. Death got a hold of her too. Last year, I guess, and I hadn't seen her in eight or nine years... but it still makes me sad. I hope death has been kinder to her than it is to the characters in Lorca's plays and poems.
slammerkinbabe: (book whore)
So the other day, I found -- okay, okay, λ found -- $150 worth of gift certificates to Amazon.com, $75 of which are mine! It was a combination of wedding gifts and credit card rewards points, or something, I don't know. Anyway, I was so excited. As always happens when I am working outside of the home and am commuting via train, I'm doing tons more reading of new books than I had been before -- when I work from home, I tend to just reread things I have around the house. (This is also why I stopped updating [livejournal.com profile] _fictionbitch_ around the time I quit the DSS job -- I wasn't reading enough new books to make it worthwhile.) So, anyway, the Amazon cards were exciting. $75 of book money, and by buying cheap copies of used books, I could easily stretch that into ten or twelve books, maybe even fourteen!

And then I found out that Julie Andrews is FINALLY publishing her memoirs (AND LOOK AT THE BEAUTIFULNESS OF HER ON THE COVER), after giving interviews saying that they were in the works for something like ten years. So of course I need to have that the day it comes out, which is April 1. Oh well. It's only twenty bucks! I still have fifty-five left!

And then I find out that Emma Donoghue's newest, which looks absolutely rocking and which I have been looking forward to for *years* -- I love her short stories, but they're not a patch on her novels, and Landing, though it was good, didn't have quite the zing of her historical stuff -- is coming out just three days later, on April 4! But only in Canada. Which means I have to order it separately and pay separate, higher shipping costs. But oh well! It's only... like... thirty, American! Which is only, you know, fifty total! So I still have twenty-five left!

And then I'm in the Coop today, and I find out that Carol Gilligan has written a new therapy novel called Kyra. Augh. As if the title didn't make it clear enough that it's fate (I was a Kyra before I was a Kylie, for those who haven't been around that long), I am a hardcore sucker for therapy novels. And practically no one writes them (writes them well, at least) except Irvin Yalom. Who has a new book out too, now that I look at it, but it looks like it's just more of his existential death-anxiety head-rummaging, so I'm not that concerned. I swear to God the man is an evangelist of the religion of death. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!! he tells us in every book, in very large existential caps. YOU WILL DIE AND I WILL DIE AND THERE WILL BE NOTHING WHEN WE ARE DEAD BECAUSE THERE IS NO GOD!!!! IF YOU DO NOT FACE THIS REALITY YOU ARE NOT A FULLY REALIZED PERSON!!! ::makes bored bap-bap-bap motion with hands:: Great, Irv, thanks. So I can skip that one. But I can't skip the Gilligan. Which is... well, seventeen dollars! Which leaves me with...

...erm, which leaves me with eight dollars. That's enough for one more book, I suppose. Maybe even two. Although if I order them used then I will have to pay separate shipping for each, so they will each have to be four dollars or less *including shipping*. Hrm. Well, I suppose I can overshoot the $75 a little.

So much for fourteen new books, anyway.

I suppose, however, that I should look on the bright side. I would have to have the Julie Andrews and the Emma Donoghue the day that they each came out, even if I *didn't* have the gift certificates to pay for them. And then we would have to not eat for a week. So on the whole this works out okay.

In other news, maybe I should start up my [livejournal.com profile] _fictionbitch_ journal again so y'all don't have to read about every bookly decision I make. Hey, if I wanted to change the title of that journal to something non-profane, what would you suggest?

In unrelated and entirely random news, one girl who just came in to work behind me -- I'm at work early, so Internet surfing is perfectly kosher -- came in smelling very strongly indeed of cigarettes. Which was bothering me, until the next girl came in smelling even more strongly of... alcohol? At 10:20 am on a Tuesday? Some people around here are having a very dissipated morning.

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