“Don’t Tell Me—O’ Imma Fuck You Up, Ho.”
Anyone who knows me fairly well offline knows that I am Corneille’s bitch. And not the high-class, “Oh, I like his plays—now watch me as I show off my worldly knowledge of the literary haute-couture,” bitch, either. I’m that whore who, if given the chance, would have gone down on him and sucked him off on the spot in the hopes that, somehow, having him baptize me with his man-juice would make me even one third as cool as he is. Yeah, I’m that crazy, groupie bitch.
I mean, the man pretty much single-handedly told the rule makers of classical theatre that they could take their stupid regulations and shove them up their asses, that the author shouldn’t be forced to write a certain way just because you say so, you silly faggots of the Académie Française.
And that boldness, dear friends, is just fucking cool. The man basically hand-delivered a literary bitch-slap to the scariest motherfucker of a Cardinal France has ever known (there’s a reason Richelieu is the ultimate villain of The Three Musketeers). Corneille = the sexiest poet of the classical age in France. He’s way better than that chickenshit slave-to-the-rules Racine (otherwise known as the teacher’s pet and that punkass bitch who takes no chances and would probably snitch on you if he saw you smoking pot).
Fucking Racine… pussy…
Long Live Corneille!!!
To further lower myself in the minds of some people–the only reason I picked up this book was because Oprah mentioned that Cooper talks about his time in Sarajevo in it.
I don’t watch CNN (seven channels, man–what can you do?), and I had never known anything about Anderson Cooper aside from the fact that he was, indeed, a Vanderbilt “heir” of sorts. Aside from that, I knew nothing about the man. I thought he was probably just one of those spoiled bastards one hears about who’s too rich for his own good and so thinks he can play God by “going to the fronts.” Honestly, I still kind of feel that way about him–mainly because I’ve seen him on television.
However, Cooper is able to express himself intelligently and make some very astute observations concerning the nature of the human condition. And also manages to move people while he’s at it. This book was a pretty good read–ESPECIALLY when one considers how short it is (212 pages–I believe that’s shorter even than The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn).
Ultimately, the novel follows Cooper through his own journey of self-discovery (covering briefly his moments as a child and a teenager–also reporting the suicide of his brother) as he travels from one war-torn, disaster-stricken place to the next. Cooper talks of his reports on Sri Lanka and India (after the tsunami), Iraq (and, as a slight aside, Bosnia and Herzegovina), Niger (and in the process, of other genocides on which he’s reported), and New Orleans after it was struck by Hurrican Katrina. And, throughout each section of the novel, Cooper manages to share the various lessons he’s learned in his travels in a clear, concise manner.
Which is why I like this book–though he certainly uses the pain and suffering in each place to illustrate what he’s learned for the reader, Cooper states outright what he’s learned. Not necessarily because he thinks the reader is too stupid to figure it out for him- or herself (well, maybe), but because it gives a sense of closure, a conclusion, if you will, and in a way (I find) incites the reader to want to learn more about the incidents on which Cooper has reported and (perhaps) do something about them. Personally, when Cooper started on his chapter of Niger, I was so deeply affected by what he had presented me that I promptly started to shake with the weight of what he had to say. It was impossible not to–his words, very simple, yet poetic in their way, were that powerful.
Honestly, if I could, I would give the book a 5 out of 5 rating. The only real problem I have with it is that I didn’t feel he fully explained his own trauma well enough for me to be satisfied. He went into great detail dissecting each reporting event in his life, but I found that–though I do understand suicide is a painful topic to broach, and even to analyse–he didn’t seem to… want to understand why he acts the way he does–going off to the most dangerous places in the world in an attempt to forget his own pain. I just didn’t feel he explored his own personal pain enough–in fact, he seemed somewhat detached when making reference to his brother…
Either way, though–the novel is very moving and very powerful. I liked it enough that I brought it to work with me to finish it.
Favourite Quotation:
“In movies, people drown peacefully, giving in to the pull of the water, taken by the tug of the tide. These pictures tell a different story. There is no dignity in drowning, no silent succumbing to the water’s ebb and flow. It’s violent, and painful, a shock to the heart. Everyone drowns alone. Even in death, their corpses scream.” (24) – The first time I read this paragraph, I actually did a double-take and read it again, so pronounced was the feeling it evoked in my mind…
Although, honestly, I believe very sincerely in the idea of basic human rights (I’ve said my pieces about it, and I believe everyone should be entitled to the same basic rights and such), there are only two incidents in my life which moved me so deeply that I seriously considered taking action to ensure everyone would be guaranteed said rights. The first event was the media kerfuffle created over the case of a Syrian-born software engineer by the name of� Maher Arar. The second event was the reading of this novel.
Though the story of the Oufkir family takes place thirty years before the present time, I’m still disgusted by the fact that such a blatant disregard for justice can occur. Especially in a country which, at least in the nineteen-fifties (twenty years before the novel) claimed to be civilized. I mean, could you imagine being imprisoned and torturted in this day and age simply because your father had committed a crime? Probably not. I know that I couldn’t imagine it.
And yet that’s exactly what happened to the Oufkirs in Morocco, in the 1970s. Six children and three women were imprisoned because one man (who was later put to death) attempted to assassinate the king. Nine innocent lives were ruined because of the machinations of one person and because of the anger of a monarch. Not to mention, a monarch who took part in raising the later-jailed author (Malika), as she was requested to live with the then-princess and grow up with her. Someone she treated as a father being betrayed by her blood father and then betraying her and the remains her family in turn.
Sounds like something Orwell would think up just to show us the degraded state of society.
Which is probably why I find myself so incapable of expressing the need for everyone to read this novel. And not just because the story in general is good, but for active reading purposes (and out come the highschool English lessons).
Needless to say, the book provokes thought. And not just about human rights, but about human excesses and the strength of the spirit as well. And all of the things we take for granted in this world.
A definite must-read, simply put.
Favourite Quotation:
“Towards the end, we were like caged beasts. We were no longer even capable of feelings. We were tired and enraged, aggressive and cruel. None of us wanted to go on wearing a mask. We no longer believed in anything.” (238) — Once again, I’m at a loss for words. Being treated so badly that one loses his or her humanity… I think it may actually be so terrible that it’s beyond my own rather limited understanding.