inthelouvre.org

Thursday, December 28, 2006

Today I was in the ‘E’ section of fiction talking to Liana about overstocks or some other such bookstore nonsense to fill up the one minute I had before my break time when a man approached me and asked if I was “knowledgable.” It would depend on what he wanted to know, I pondered, but asked, “what can I help you find today?” He quite simply said he was looking for Hannibal Rising but he didn’t have to give an author because I was already on my way, passing the ‘H’ section (because for some odd reason we don’t stock books that have large quantities in the sections people will be looking for them; rather, we are required to stack them throughout the store in various locations that don’t always make sense) and straight to the Nicholas Sparks endcap. When I turned around he told me they should keep me around, then asked to look at my teeth.

“Now let me see your teeth, my dear,” were his words as I recall them. I’ve never had a problem with any visit to the dentist, except that I find my dentist a frightening and intimidating man, as a person. I believe I actually looked forward to most dental appointments, so I don’t have any bad associations with metal things in my mouth or awkward conversation with my mouth open. However, at this point in time, I got extremely nervous and started thinking of excuses as to why I hadn’t been to the dentist, because surely this man was a dentist. Why else would he be asking to see my teeth? “Hmm, yes, very good,” was his reply to my pearly whites.

He then proceeded to ask me a series of questions about my life - general things that aren’t unusual from customers, even if they aren’t regulars. Have I been in this area my entire life? What school did I go to? What did I major in? — things of that nature. (They always seem excited when I tell them English, but less so when I mention mythology and folklore. And come to think of it, I guess it is a little intriguing how much interest these people take in our lives; I mean, sure, I found that book for you in a manner of seconds, saving you minutes of browsing and using your brain, but I’m not any more exciting than the next guy.) My next inner thought to his responses was that he was a psychic of some sort, one of those people who can tell you your life story based on a few minor details, or someone who at least can read body language and responses well enough to know the kind of person you are. I was nervous he’d reveal something and ask me if he’s right, that I’d have to reveal a significant detail of my innermost emotions to this strange man who took such interest in me. It was kind of a dramatic reaction, but he seemed so much like an author to me, as if that moment of my life was part of a story he’s writing about a girl who works in a bookstore. A lot of thoughts crossed through my mind and I had the sinking feeling that he could read them. I began to sweat.

He called me beautiful. It wasn’t in a creepy way, but the way you tell your grandmother she’s beautiful, and he then told me that that’s the kind of beauty I possess: “The beauty that will last ages. You look older than you are and your beauty comes from that. Your features are perfect. I am an old man, as you can see, and I have had lovers and seen beautiful women all my life. I know beautiful women, and you are a beautiful woman, and you will continue to be a beautiful woman throughout your life. You are one of those women who will grow older, but keep her beauty. Do you know that? As others beside you wrinkle and gray, you will retain your youth, or at least seem to.” “Forever beautiful,” he called me.

The man then told me that I should keep lovers, not husbands, that I should look for great lovers and not good husbands, not yet, because there’s a very good chance that a “great husband” will not be a “great lover,” and a “great lover” will certainly not be a “great husband.” I am young and beautiful and young people are filled with such passion, such lust, and it’s very unnecessary to become attached at such a young age. I shouldn’t settle down or get married and definitely not have kids until I’m older and spent and full of great lovers, traveling, and life. He regaled me with details of boys today, and how I should be careful in my choosing of these great lovers, because “most men today are idiots, they aren’t good enough for you; they pretend they are rappers and gangsters and they don’t appreciate life or literature or art, not in the way I imagine you do.” I’d want a lover who I could converse with late into the night.

And my husband? My husband should be rich. I shouldn’t settle for a poor fool, because I only deserve someone who can provide the best things in life for me, and no, he wasn’t talking about love and happiness, but materialistic things, because even though we put emphasis on “selflessness” these days, all beautiful women deserve to be sprinkled with gifts and supported properly. It will be tempting to marry a man who cannot fully provide for me, but I have to ignore that nerve and go for the guy who is at least decently worthy of me. But I should also find someone who is genuine and faithful, because he must appreciate that my inner beauty is the best thing that will ever happen to him in his life, and my outer beauty is incomparable to anything else he’s ever experienced. He may get jealous, but he’ll know in his heart that I am just as loyal to him, if not even more loyal, because it’s true that all men have stray thoughts. The other requirement is that he knows what I want before I want I know it, or before I tell him I want it, and gives it to me without my having to wonder about it or mention it. I deserve no less.

He asked me if I knew that I was beautiful, and I said yes. He said that made me even more beautiful.

When I woke up from this dream I was standing next to the Nicholas Sparks endcap, one less Hannibal Rising on the floor stack. I was smiling. I won’t take the advice, but it left me feeling more alive than I thought I could be based on such a brief encounter. I am sitting here, in bed, with the laptop on my lap (or lackthereof, since I’m in such a position that there is no lap) and next to me is a boy telling me about a game he’s playing and I’m smiling because he is so excited and so handsome. I think of this stranger and what an effect he may have had on my life, depending on how the future turns out, and I think of this person close by, and it all starts to make sense.

And maybe this is all just one big story, or maybe it’s an episode within a story, but it has to be something artistic because these kinds of things only happen in movies.

Matthew Pearl - The Dante Club

The ending was slightly disappointing, but only in that “sometimes movies are disappointing in the end” way. That is, it wrapped everything up very nicely in the same way that movies of this nature do. It falls back into personal lives and there’s a touching moment between Longfellow and his daughters, we learn that the translation goes on successfully, and there is an entire chapter dedicated to the murderer, the events of his life and therefore his motivations for the killings, and how he was punished. Just as when I see suspenseful yet mysterious movies that are very good in the bulk, I found myself reading the last few pages of this book wondering why it was necessary to include.

However, the ending is not horrible or so badly fit as to leave a stain on my overall impression of the book. It was excellent, and without a doubt one of my new favorite novels. I enjoyed it so thoroughly that I even bought it as a Christmas present for my friend Morgan before I even finished it (she is a fan of Dante and this was one of the first conversations we had about literature, so after the first 20 or 30 pages I knew she’d appreciate its literary and historical value).

Richard and I were having a discussion about similarly written books and movies; I don’t recall which movie we were specifically talking about, but the annoyance at taking “real-life” people and creating characters and stories around them was mentioned. For example, the main characters in this book were existing authors (and well-known), and so was their “Dante Club” and translation of the poem. However, the murders never happened and certainly neither did their detective work in relation to those murders. I think a lot of people have a problem with this kind of writing, how these books are written so close to the truth that they almost seem true (and, indeed, some people think them so). Now that I’ve thought that, I believe it was The Da Vinci Code we were talking about, because I’d seen the movie that night (not as bad as I expected, though still not recommended). Jesus, presumably, existed, as did Mary Magdalene and the other religious figures involved. The Knights Templar legends exist, and the Opus Dei as well. I haven’t read the book so I only have the movie to go on, but it seems that Dan Brown took all these things and wrote an historical novel from them, right? Well, then, why is it that I’ve had several people ask me to take them to The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown, and then complain that where I lead them is the section labeled “Fiction/Literature”? Why do people expect this book to be in “World History” or “History/Theology”? I think that is why people dislike this method of historical writing - as I said, taking real elements and rewriting them in a fictional world.

Personally, I can discern a line between fact and fiction and enjoy a book that is written so well that it even has me questioning history. I almost wanted to Google search the occurrence of these murders, because they were so involved in these authors’ lives that “True Crime” seemed a more appropriate section. Outside of the book, though, I know I’m reading fiction, and the only “truth” is the truth of the world which I am visiting when I open that book. This is a world in which authors become detectives and Civil War veterans become murderers.

I think it’s not the authors and the books that should be frustrating - rather, the readers. Anyone who believes The Da Vinci Code really happened should be shot, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. I think if an author can write historical fiction so well that it seems to be true, he or she deserves some kind of award. They’ve obviously done their research efficiently and thoroughly.

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