(I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened – then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The bar is in full swing and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside until the air is alive with chatter and laughter and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.
He smiled understandingly – much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life.
But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.
For book club we read 50 Shades of Grey, by E. L. James. If you don’t know anything about it, allow me to allow Ellen DeGeneres (you know, the lady I wrote postcards to once a week in the hopes she’ll take pity and invite me on her show and help me get published?) … anywho, here’s Ellen reading from 50 Shades.
The book is bad. I don’t know how else to tell you that. I’m sure some people will like it, but even people who like it (on boards I looked at) seemed to know that it was still bad writing. If you’re into reading about kinky sex or controlling dudes, I recommend this book. Otherwise, suffice yourself with this series of quotes from the book.
My personal favorites are the ones where she talks to her subconscious, and also her “inner goddess.” Good GOD this book is bad.
50 Shades of Grey
His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel … or something.
“Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of The Communist Manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking. NOW.
Paul is cute in a wholesome all-American boy-next-door kind of way, but he’s no literary hero, not by any stretch of the imagination. Is Grey? my subconscious asks me, her eyebrow figuratively raised. I slap her down.
My subconscious is figuratively tutting and glaring at me over her half-moon specs.
Tonight’s the night! After all this time, am I ready for this? My inner goddess glares at me, tapping her small foot impatiently. She’s been ready for this for years, and she’s ready for anything with Christian Grey
He gives me a wicked grin, the effects of which travel all the way down there.
It’s a beautiful May morning, Seattle at my feet. Wow, what a view. Beside me, Christian is fast asleep. Wow, what a view.
My inner goddess sits in the lotus position looking serene except for the sly, self-congratulatory smile on her face.
[…] a very small part of me resents that he should find this a surprise. My inner goddess does, too. She makes a very vulgar and unattractive gesture at him with her fingers.
My inner goddess jumps up and down with cheerleading pom-poms shouting yes at me.
My subconscious runs, screaming, and hides behind the couch.
My subconscious peeks out from behind the couch, still registering shock on her harpy face.
I thought I was in charge? My inner goddess looks like someone snatched her ice cream.
My inner goddess pouts at me, failing miserably to hide her disappointment.
Fin
What’s impressive is that I have even more so-amazingly-bad-they’re-good quotes from this book. But that’s all I can muster for now, my inner goddess has a gun.
He is abnormal. He is not a gentleman. But how magically his singing violin can conjure up a tendresse, a compassion for Lolita that makes us entranced with the book while abhorring its author!
You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
I was led upstairs, and to the left – into “my” room. I inspected it through the mist of my utter rejection of it
“How I love this garden [no exclamation mark in her tone]. Isn’t it divine in the sun [no question mark either].”
Please, reader: no matter your exasperation with the tenderhearted, morbidly sensitive, infinitely circumspect hero of my book, do not skip these essential pages! Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me; try to discern the doe in me, trembling in the forest of my own iniquity; let’s even smile a little. After all, there is no harm in smiling.
DumbFunnery 