Acts of shameless hedonism

[sawyl]

Something of a weekend of sybaritic indulgence, albeit of a distinctly intellectual nature. After immersing myself in the thoughts and worlds of John Stuart Mill, I moved on to read Girls: Conception by the Luna Brothers. It was an interesting, if rather misogynistic, read with hints of The Midwich Cuckoos, Signs and Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask. Maybe I'll write a proper review of it sometime soon.

I also took the time to revel in the unabashed romanticism of Mahler's 2nd, in the audaciously brilliant Rattle recording featuring Arleen Auger and Dame Janet Backer — by far and away the best available version. There then followed the purchasing of comics and a discussion of the total and unalloyed perfection of Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale, which is very possibly my favourite book of all time and one which, in moments of unbridled enthusiasm, I've been known to try and force upon unsuspecting friends and relatives using a combination of emotional blackmail and guilt.

While I suspect that The Robber Bride and Cat's Eye are almost as good, I have to confess that I prefer Handmaid. Maybe it's the idea of Scrabble as a forbidden game, maybe it's bizarre religion-gone-mad distopia — one that Atwood says is actually a collection of existing extreme elements, rather than ones invented specifically for the book — that is Gilead, or maybe it's the sheer brilliance of Ofred, with her eye for detail and her clever word games and puns (cue a favourite bleeding chunk):

Think of it as being in the army, said Aunt Lydia

A bed. Single, mattress medium hard, covered with a flocked white spread. Nothing takes place in the bed but sleep; or no sleep. I try not to think too much. Like other things now, thought must be rationed. There's a lot that doesn't bare thinking about. Thinking can hurt your chances, and I intend to last. I know why there is no glass, in front of the watercolour picture of blue irises, and why the window only opens partly and why the glass in it is shatterproof. It isn't running away they're are afraid of. We wouldn't get far. It's those other escapes, the ones you can open in yourself, given a cutting edge.

So. Apart from these details, this could be a college guest room, for the less distinguished visitors; or a room in a rooming house, of former times, for ladies in reduced circumstances. That is what we are now. The circumstances have been reduced; for those of us who still have circumstances.

But a chair, sunlight, flowers: these are not to be dismissed. I am alive, I live, I breath, I put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight. Where I am now is not a prison but a privilege, as Aunt Lydia said, who was in love with either/or.
— The Handmaid's Tale, Ch. 2

Talk about a snappy and smart as a whip. Maybe the reason for my preference is relatively simple: maybe it's just that I'm totally in love with heroine.

Whatever my reasons for adoring it, it seems to me that Handmaid is something of a literary shibboleth: either you totally love it or you're a sad excuse for a human being with no taste...