Monk

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One of the special things that the "Story of O" gives the faithful reader (as opposed to the reader who is only racing through for the hottest parts), is that the narrative sometimes goes deeper than the sensational sex, touching upon the more intimate aspects of interpersonal relations, as in the scene when Jacqueline has moved in with O and joins her in bed:

O drew the covers over her and turned out the light. Two hours later, when she took Jacqueline again, in the darkness, Jacqueline acquiesced, but murmured: “Don't tire me out too much, I have to get up early tomorrow.”

Coming across a passage like that is one of the great treats of this reading life, and it brings a tender smile to Monk's ravaged face, but it is a smile weighed down by the poignantly bittersweet regret that this should be experienced between the pages rather than between the sheets.

xXx

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After all that "Road" today, Monk is able to enjoy a good late evening session with "O," following Swanson's Mexican dinner, fast and easy, freeing up more of the evening. A little steamy romance in one's day is always good.

xXx

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Reading "The Road" on this heavenly peaceful, autumnal Saturday morning, Monk goes to the computer to look up 'catamites,' and his appetite for electronic dictionaries is reawakened and he browses through Amazon's stock. Yahoo's simple dictionary serves his purposes well enough, even providing audio pronunciations, and Monk does not have enough money for his books, but the heart is a covetous creature. Like the dick.

xXx

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Taking Bo out on the post-breakfast rounds to another lightly foggy morning, Monk loves how he easily gets absorbed reading "O." He also feels some regret that he can not have some of this natural joy in reading narrative histories. And I am afraid that more serious literature, such as Dickens and Maugham, probably would not work, either. One would think that Monk should be beyond the prod of intellectual ambitions by now. At least it does not bother him as much any more. We are just happy to find something that feels as good as this.

xXx

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Nights dark beyond darknesss and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world.

-- "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy

Monk finished reading a chapter of "Reading Vergil's Aeneid" at around four-thirty, and he was looking forward to spending a long afternoon with "O." However, he realized that the three-day weekend begins tomorrow, and instead of glutting himself on porn, he started "The Road" early.

This one by McCarthy is looking even better than "Blood Meridian," which is a darkly lyrical favorite in its own right. The plot in "The Road" is simpler and more elegant and therefore starker and even more absorbing. The man is a poet-novelist and we are beggar-readers.

I do believe that it spurred a special memory of mother with its brooding and desperate reflection. It occurred when Pop came out to see if Bill was outside to talk to. Since this makes Monk self-conscious about his reading, to be seen openly from outside the window like that, he shuts the blinds for privacy.

This 'shunning' brought to mind the springtime afternoons when mother would similarly impinge on the privacy and comfort of his reading. She would come by the window with water hose in hand to water her hibiscus. And Monk can practically see her there as if it were yesterday, with the kind of clarity that his recollections had in the first months after her death. Monk can see the attentive concern on her face for her dying plant, which is slightly tinged by the comical since her inability to keep her plants thriving had long been a family joke, that black thumb of death.

Monk came close to tears after all these years. That is a testament to the power of McCarthy's narrative of a father and son attempting to negotiate a barren world with more pride than hope.

xXx

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Taking Bo outside to take care of doggy business, Monk took the few minutes to read another couple of pages of "O," his hit-and-run reading. Really enjoying this lewd little interlude, a funny thought occurred to Monk.

He recalled those Bay Horse days in the early and mid nineties, when he was enthusiastic about memorizing poems, and he even memorized a short story, which took twenty minutes to recite. He was excited enough over this endeavor that his ambitions grew.

Do you recall the story "Fahrenheit 451"? This story is about a dystopian future in which they ban and burn books. There was a little counter-cultural society that rebelled against this, with each member working to memorize a book, thus keeping the books alive.

And Monk fancied the idea of picking a book to memorize. He was curious, in part, to see if he could memorize that much. Unsurprisingly, he never even began to try it, but he would toy with the idea of what book to choose.

The punch line to all of this. Enjoying that fast few minutes with "O," Monk thought that the "Story of O" might have been a great book to choose for memorization. My Happy Place.

xXx

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Monk is so bad. Along with Fagles' Aeneid, he also ordered "Spike Trap: A Novel of Female Submission" by Han Li Thorn.

I actually first came across "Spike Trap" on LJ, as the author himself apparently has an account here, and he was promoting his product at one of our adult communities. I was skeptical at first, but checking out his stuff, I was reminded again how LJ really does draw some real talent. You can read a long excerpt for free at his website at HanLiThorn.com. It looks very promising indeed.

Amazon is guaranteeing that even "free super saving shipping" customers will get their shipments before Christmas by ordering now. So, Monk has a nice Christmas gift to himself coming. And, who knows, he might get another special little package, too, something to enjoy while reading "Spke Trap," hmm...

xXx

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“... the fact is,” said the other voice, “that if you do tie her up, or whip her a little, and if she begins to like it, then that's no good either. We've got to move beyond the pleasure stage. We must make the tears flow.”

-- "Story of O" by Pauline Reage as translated by John Paul Hand

Ah, Monk just came out of a long, leisurely rainy afternoon back in the chateau, enjoying the enforced moans and tears of O. Monk never had a more brilliant plan than to cast aside that Roman history text and to make the most of the day. Considering the real life, how could Monk accept anything less from his reading life?

xXx

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Since Pop was settled in on this wet, semi-wintry Sunday afternoon in the office over the newspaper blaring at top volume that pre-World War II country & western music, Monk laid down for an early nap in the theater. I am surprised that Monk actually fell asleep, at least until Victor's phone call charged him out of bed in utter confusion.

Monk had finished Block's book, and I am happy to say that he converted him into a fan. "The Girl with the Long Green Heart" is definitely a rereadable.

Instead of beginning his second reading of "Story of O," Monk thought that it would be a good idea to get a jump on the remainder of Mr. Scullard's rendition of that Carthage and Rome story. Although this is better than the much drier sections on the archaeology and earliest history of pre-Roman times, Monk gave up on Scullard again. He would rather begin "Reading Vergil's Aeneid" tomorrow, rather than spending another whole week with Scullard. Life is just too short.

So, Monk gave in to his tiredness and shut Scullard for good, falling sweetly into his nap. Best yet, we begin "Story of O" this afternoon. And life is thus swiftly made that much richer.

xXx

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She had a special beauty nude. Most women look better clothed. Bodies are imperfect. Clothes hide, and also promise, and the promise is too often better than the fulfillment of it. Not so with Evvie.

-- "The Girl with the Long Green Heart" by Lawrence Block

Purrr...

This is only looking more and more promising, approaching the half-way mark. We have the femme fatale, and all the makings of criminal love gone wrong. Of dandelion dreams being blown and scattered in the wind.

xXx