This great quote is from Anthony Trollope’s novel I’m reading. The character described here reminds me of somebody – wink, wink – so so much:
He had no idea as to the necessity or non-necessity of any measure whatever in reference to the well-being of the country. It may, indeed, be said that all such ideas were to him absurd, and the fact that they should be held by his friends and supporters was an inconvenience. . . To him Parliament was a debating place, by having a majority in which, and by no other means, he,–or another,–might become the great man of the day. By no other than parliamentary means could such a one as he come to be the chief man. And this use of Parliament, either on his own behalf or on behalf of others, had been for so many years present to his mind, that there seemed to be nothing absurd in an institution supported for such a purpose. Parliament was a club so eligible in its nature that all Englishmen wished to belong to it. They who succeeded were acknowledged to be the cream of the land. They who dominated in it were the cream of the cream.
Toxic veganist femininity shot up the YouTube HQ yesterday. The victims survived so it’s not insensitive to joke.
In pursuit of my challenge, I’m at the gym. An incredibly loud personal trainer next to me is brainstorming with clients how to explain to her 5-year-old grandson that “dinosaurs are not real and it’s those archeologist people who invented them to undermine our religious faith.” A client gently objects that no, dinosaurs are real but they all “died in the flood of Noah.”
After this matter is put to rest, the trainer and the clients discuss how much they hate the university because “it takes too much space.”
Wow, Naked Capitalism is still shilling aggressively on behalf of its Russian owners. Even on a case as blatant as the recent poisoning they still can’t help themselves.
If you are one of the folks who ever took these buggers seriously, I hope you have reconsidered now that it’s obvious how much this is costing the country.
I was contemplating how a female protagonist in a mystery/thriller of necessity has to work differently than a male protagonist. Too often if a man is writing a female protagonist, she’s either written drop dead Hollywood gorgeous as an idealized sex toy, not as a real person, most of whom aren’t drop dead gorgeous and most of whom aren’t tall and thin. Or if he believes himself to be a particularly enlightened writer, she’s depicted basically as a man with boobs.
That’s exactly how female authors fashion these characters, too. And I mostly read female authors in this genre because they are more hardcore and their work tends to be a lot darker. The reason why I’m tired of Gerritsen, Gardner, Lippmann, and Co is precisely because their female protagonist are “men with boobs.” And pretty obnoxious imitations of men, too.
Yet most depictions of female protagonists by men have their female protagonist either be basically virginal and asexual with no discernable sex drive, or have her slinking up to villains to use sex as a weapon.
And female writers do it exactly the same. For instance, Elizabeth George’s Barbara Havers is type 1, Lisa Gardner’s new character is type 2. The list is endless.
I understand not liking the genre and knowing nothing about it. But what’s the reasoning behind writing at length about a genre that you never bothered to read?