Mind Picking : Farewell 2014

Another New Year's Eve and time to look back on my second year of blogging. I have to admit that it seems worthwhile as a way to leave a record of myself and I am fascinated to think that strangers read my thoughts; what a strange thing that is when I'm fairly certain that no one who actually knows me has ever stumbled across this, but there will be a time and place for that.

2014 was another fine year; one without mind-blowing highs or earth-shattering lows and I need to constantly remind myself that that is what quiet happiness looks like. I had many hours to read and review books (150 of them according to goodreads) and that's a luxury not many have access to. To start with the books, here are my Top Five for 2014 releases and Top Fifteen for other years:

Top Five Books Released in 2014

 Sweetland

My favourite book of the year -- so Canadian and entertaining, I'd have given it the GG.


 The Enchanted

Everything about this book is just exactly my kind of weird and wonderful and important.

 The Bear

This thriller, told from a child's point of view, touched my heart.

 History of the Rain

I like books about books and reading and this quirky Irish tale would have been my early pick for the Booker.

 The Narrow Road to the Deep North

I wasn't disappointed that this book about the building of the Burma Railway during WWII did win the Booker.

Top Fifteen Reads From Earlier Years

 Cape Breton Road

This book felt personal and universal and incredibly well-written.

 War and Peace

There's a reason this is a classic.

 None is Too Many

Learning this history is the best thing to have come out of that lame lit course I took.

 My Best Stories

This is why Alice Munro was awarded the Nobel Prize for Fiction

 The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

Another classic that deserves to be read for years to come.

 The Colony of Unrequited Dreams

Epic Newfie origin story by a master storyteller.

 The Wreckage

The second Michael Crummey for my year-end list: why isn't everyone reading this guy?

 Deliverance

So much more than squealing pigs and purdy mouths, James Dickey is a poet who captured something unique here about how a man should live.

 The Quiet Twin

I love Dan Vyleta and this prequel to The Crooked Maid was a wonder.

 Us Conductors

What an interesting new voice Sean Michaels is and I wasn't unhappy to see this book win the Giller.

 Juliet Was a Surprise

Weird and wonderful short story collection.

Suite Française

The story behind this story is even more touching than the story itself.

 Born With A Tooth

Love me some Joseph Boyden.

 Filth

I don't know how Irvine Welsh makes me care so much about such despicable characters.

 Bear

And I'm including this book on my best-of list to emphasise that it's literature, not smut.


   And now a look back at 2014 in (mostly fuzzy cellphone) pictures.

So, for the first time in 10 years -- and mostly because of Grandpa's bypass -- we didn't take a sun vacation with the girls and I didn't like that (which is why we leave for the Dominican Republic in a couple of days). Dave and I did go on a quick trip to Vegas  in February because he was changing jobs again and wanted a small break in between, but I missed having the girls around.

We did go to the zoo to see the pandas (as a long overdue birthday present for Ella), and the zoo is a place I prefer to visit in the snow:

And I'm jumping over a lot of things because I blogged about them at the time, but in July we went to a music festival (me, Dave, Rudy and Dan):

And we were this close to Kim Mitchell:

And Aerosmith:

(And Bryan Adams and Slash and Styx and...) And as cool as all that was, I think I'm too old for the crowds and the noise and all of the people around us smoking dope. I'm pretty sure Dan wants it to be an annual thing, though, so I may need to follow along. For the most part, I spent the summer on the hammock chair, enjoying the back yard:

But Kennedy and I did go to a high tea for Aunt Susie's birthday. We thought we were being smart asses wearing fascinators, but everyone else there (those who thought to wear big hats and those who were provided with some) thought we were brilliant:

Mallory went on her Europe trip and it was hard to say goodbye:

But here are some pics I stole from her; of course the trip was worth my worrying about it:

And you know that if we're at a Busker Festival and the performer is grabbing volunteers from the audience, Dave will be forced to go:

I particularly like the advertising banner behind them there: did no one ever think that "MY CONDO MY LIFE" would be read as "MY CONDOMY LIFE"? In this show, the woman arranged all of the men in different roles and she had picked one of them to strike a heroic pose and hammily shout out some lines, but he was so embarrassed by the attention that he just couldn't do it. Then she asked Dave if he would do it, and just like when he went on stage during the Jim Belushi improv show, he looked like a total plant, projecting his lines and posing like a hammy actor. The woman ended up on Dave's shoulders and he had to walk around while Nancy Sinatra sang These Boots Were Made for Walking with his cell phone ringing in his pocket the whole time because Mallory and her friend were ready to be picked up from their One Direction concert.

We rented the cottage at Sauble Beach, which I talked about at length here, but here's a lovely Lake Huron sunset:

(And is it a little sad that everyone was walking around in jackets during our beach getaway?) Like every year, we went apple picking. But like only happens sometimes, Dave came this year:

Kennedy returned to her second year at Guelph, now with a Griffin statue:

And for the first time, Kennedy was old enough to join us at Oktoberfest, so her mama showed her how it's done:

The inlaws thought they were going to downsize to an apartment this year and we went to declutter their house:

So we had what we thought would be the last Thanksgiving at their home in London, taking a lovely Norman Rockwellesque selfie (and they eventually changed their minds about moving just yet):

And I was able to convince Mal to let me take a Halloween picture of her as Black Widow (finding a costume for her this year was harder than ever -- she wanted to be Black Widow, and after we finally found the exact right costume, she "wasn't sure"...hours later...I know she's 16 and was going to a party that was socially important to her...but come on, this is adorable):

We took the girls to Evil Dead the Musical and sat in the Splatter Zone; natch. It was only a so-so event as a play, but once they started spraying us with fake blood, it was the most hilarious thing I ever experienced -- I just could not stop laughing (the lighting here doesn't show how completely covered in red we are -- thank goodness for the ponchos).

After the horrific shooting of the soldier in Ottawa  this fall, I thought it was important to go to the Remembrance Day ceremony downtown, even if I had to go alone. I was totally choked up at the singing of O Canada and at the sight of the soldiers -- active and veterans -- who paraded into the square, but was truly upset by the sight of officers on the roof of the library. That was something I never thought I'd see in Canada (and, trying to not be obvious, I only caught a shoulder of one cop):

On a lighter note, here's my favourite story from the end of the year: I follow the local radio station on facebook, and for fun one day, they posted, "do an image google search of your name + 'meme' and copy/paste the results". I looked and had some funny results so posted this one:

Now, that's hilarious to me because I don't get the whole "Hey Girl" Ryan Gosling appeal -- and don't have finals, of course -- so it was all for fun. After checking back a few times to see what other people put, I saw my mother had posted: What's a meme?

Is there anything more stereotypically lame than a senior citizen piping up in the middle of a game with her social media ignorance? Every time one of the girls mentioned the word "meme" since then (and Mallory actually thinks it beyond lame that I might know or use them -- because I'm so old), I've put on a cranky old lady voice and said, "What's a meme?" And, to save face for Ma, I replied to her with this:

We had a great Christmas and recovery and will be going to Ken and Lolo's tonight for New Year's, so that's pretty much the year. We saw many great plays and concerts -- especially enjoying seeing our own girls performing -- and obviously, I read a huge pile of books. No worries, no problems, just a safe and placid, happy ride.

Yes Please

It’s called Yes Please because it is the constant struggle and often the right answer. Can we figure out what we want, ask for it, and stop talking? Yes please. Is being vulnerable a power position? Yes please. Am I allowed to take up space? Yes please. Would you like to be left alone? Yes please. I love saying “yes” and I love saying “please”. Saying “yes” doesn’t mean I don’t know how to say no, and saying “please” doesn’t mean I am waiting for permission. “Yes please” sounds powerful and concise. It’s a response and a request. It is not about being a good girl; it is about being a real woman. It’s also a title I can tell my kids. I like when they say “Yes please” because most people are rude and nice manners are the secret keys to the universe.

I have always thought that Amy Poehler's public persona is likeable and funny and just offbeat enough to stand out from the crowd (I'm thinking of Amber, the one-legged white-trash character from SNL), but because I don't read People or Us Weekly, I didn't know anything about her personal life; didn't even know she was married to Will Arnett until I somehow heard they were breaking up. To be concise: I don't much care about the personal lives of celebrities, and if I read a celebrity memoir, it's most likely that I'm just looking to be entertained. Yes Please is entertaining (without being laugh-out-loud funny), and oddly enough, I don't think I know Poehler much better now than I did before I picked up this book.

The only behind the scenes story I previously knew about Poehler came from Tina Fey's Bossypants (and yes, it is the law that you need to name-drop one of these massively talented and entertaining women when mentioning the other): Apparently in an SNL writers' meeting, Poehler was doing some vulgar and "unladylike" bit with Seth Meyers, and Jimmy Fallon turned to her, and in a faux-squeamish voice said, "Stop that! It’s not cute! I don’t like it." Poehler turned on him and, cursing like a sailor, let Fallon know that she didn't care what he liked and went back to what had been amusing her. I appreciated that story when I first heard it -- it must be impossible enough for a woman to make it in comedy without worrying about being cute and ladylike all the time. But Yes Please did add some new perspective: it seems that Amy Poehler is always quick to anger and spends most of her time cursing like a sailor. This book has expletives on every page, and as the tone is conversational, I have to conclude that this is just the way that the author speaks. Now, I'm not offended by this because it's unladylike, but I was underwhelmed because it seemed so unprofessional; I can't think of another memoir or book of essays in which I was cursed at so much and it doesn't jibe with the "nice manners are the secret keys to the universe" that Poehler claims as her philosophy. So, does she speak this way simply because she's from a lower-middle-class blue-collar background? Is it her attempt at fitting in to a male-dominated profession as a 5'2" elfin blond? Is she actually Amber at heart (the one-legged white-trash character) saying, "Yeah, I farted. Deal with it.", because ultimately she doesn't care what I think of her? But shouldn't an author start from a position of not wanting to turn off her audience? 

While throughout Yes Please Poehler comes off as likeable, she's quick to point out that she might not be as nice as you think in real life -- especially if you try and approach her:

When I walk down the street and someone asks me, "Excuse me, can I ask you a question?" I immediately put my hand up and firmly say, "No!" No one needs to ask me a question. There is no reason to talk to strangers. I do not want you to hand me your homemade CD or talk to me on an airplane or try to upsell me on drink specials. As I get older I get real pleasure from maintaining boundaries with strangers. I have come to enjoy telling the cheese guy at the farmers' market that he does not value my time. I like letting my massage therapist know that she is putting her needs before my own. It may be difficult to tell my family I feel pressure to entertain them, but it's easy to tell the UPS guy that he needs to respect my personal space.

Poehler especially resents the young up-and-comers who think that she could break them into show biz because she did it the hard way -- spending over a decade honing her improv skills with Second City and ImprovOlympics in Chicago, moving with the Upright Citizens Brigade to NYC, working as a waitress to keep her theater company afloat, and taking small roles that led to bigger and better opportunities. This part was interesting to me and I wish there was more of the climb to the top -- and especially because I had no idea just how involved Poehler is with live theater even to this day. I wish I knew more about the alt-comedy movement: I really like going to live comedy but wouldn't be impressed if the audience was compelled out onto the street where a woman was walking by naked to protest her rent increase. Art piece, maybe, but comedy?

Yes Please is mostly a collection of philosophies that Poehler has collected so far (like "other people are not medicine" or "nothing is anyone's business"), and although there are some autobiographical facts thrown in, this isn't really a memoir. And that's okay because, like I said, I'm not much more interested in Amy Poehler's personal life than she is in sharing it, but there's something kind of…pointless…about this book. The philosophy isn't mind-blowing, the behind-the-scenes glimpses aren't fascinating, and the stories often break off in the middle and resume without transition later. There are some embarrassing-but-cute childhood pictures, hand-written notes, poems, and other scrap-booky bits that make this 300+ page book a very quick read. But the only two stories that I found interesting were show-bizzy -- a lapse of judgement in an SNL skit that it took Poehler years to properly atone for and an uncomfortable interaction with the producer of a televised event -- and I would have been interested in more stories like these, if only because Poehler does have a ringside seat to a world most of us will never know (whereas her thoughts on divorce and dating are rather banal). I don't regret reading Yes Please so I won't drop it to two stars, but as I've heard she's writing another book, I will remember to give it a pass.

Mallory is such a huge Parks and Recreation fan -- and becoming an SNL fan -- that two different friends gave her copies of Yes Please for Christmas. When she saw I finally got my copy from the library's waiting list, she thought it would be cool that we're reading it at the same time -- but I don't know if she'll still want to discuss it with me once she really gets into it. Not only does Amy Poehler curse non-stop, but she mentions drug use a lot, and tells us several times that she has become very good at sex. I don't think these are topics any 16-year-old wants to risk her mother bringing into a book discussion, and it's hard to know how she'll react to my less than glowing review. Time will tell...

Mind Picking : Boxing Day Reflections

Finally rested up from another exhausting Christmas, but like always, the effort is definitely worth the results. I was extra tired this year because, after losing both of their doggies in the past few months (they were 18-years-old), I decided (kind of last minute) to make a cross-stitch portrait of Penny and Two-Bit for Lolo. I dug out a picture I had taken of them years ago, searched until I found a good (and free/immediate) online program to create a pattern out of it (I used Pic 2 Pat  and would totally recommend it) and started stitching about six weeks ago. At only 6 x 10 inches, I didn't think it would take too long, but for perspective, the image was 200 x 100 squares, which is 20 000 squares, which is 40 000 stitches. I also kept getting discouraged because it didn't look like there was enough contrast between the brown of the dogs' legs and their shadows on the ground, and until it was finished, I wasn't sure if this untested program was any good.

I was stitching every day for a few hours at first, and every day, Dave would come home, look at my progress and say, "Are you sure you're going to get it done in time?" Discouraging. Then, once Kennedy was done school for the semester, she offered to keep stitching while I showered or walked Libby or otherwise gave my eyes a rest, and she was so helpful that I started wondering why she wasn't helping me even more. By last week, I was stitching 8 - 10 hours/day. Ken called me on Friday to say he was on his way to his kids' Christmas concert and asked me to come along, but since I was on my final push, for the first year ever, I said I wasn't up to going. It was finished on Saturday, framed on Sunday, and that left me scrambling to otherwise get ready for our Christmas traditions.

During all of this, I had told only an internet friend about what I was working on and she said that she bet my brother and sister-in-law would cry when they got the portrait, and I was proud enough of the results to make this little collage to show Darlene:

Meanwhile, on Christmas morning, when we entered the family room to open stockings, I was given this:

Over the years, I have cross-stitched stockings for everyone in the family and used one that Dave had bought for me. This year, starting way back in August, Kennedy started making one for me. She was feeling her own pressure over the past couple of weeks to get her own project done, and even though her own eyes were strained and her own fingers were cramping, she kept offering to give me breaks (and remember, I kept hoping that she would pick up my doggy project more often. I kept hoping she would work on it like the shoemaker's elves when I went to bed, and even though I was slightly disappointed every morning to see no progress, she was spending her time working on my stocking.) Well, you better believe that I started crying when I saw this stocking -- a special serendipity led me to do the portrait of Penny and Two-Bit so that I would have a fresh perspective on just how much work and love goes into one of these projects. I didn't need one more thing for Christmas (but of course was spoiled by everyone else as well).

We had our gift exchange with Ken and Lolo last night and my portrait was also appreciated (but no tears over there). Lolo unwrapped it, thought it was a framed/enlarged photo at first and was just saying, "Thanks so much, isn't that..." and then looked closer and, "wait...did you make this? Oh my God, Krista, this is gorgeous, Ken, look what Krista made..." In short, my effort was recognised and enough fuss was made to embarrass me into wanting to change the subject. As we were leaving, Lolo gave me another thank you and a big hug and I know that she understood the love that I put into my project, too.

Another story: Dave had brought home some extra stocking stuffers for the girls one day, and as I was stitching, I didn't really pay attention to what they were as he hid them with the rest. It wasn't until Tuesday, when I was pulling out everything to make sure the two piles were equal that I realised Dave had come home with two books and a cd for Mal and just a comic book for Kennedy. Freaking out because I wouldn't have time to figure out more presents for Kennedy, I knew I would just have to sleep on it and worry about it the next day -- Christmas Eve. So I did my food shopping the next morning, was basically uninspired, and when I got home, I googled "best art history movies" and checked the website of The Beat Goes On to see which were in stock. The Girl With the Pearl Earring was in stock in town here (which was good because I wanted to see if they had a stocking stuffer for Dave there) and a movie called Fur was in stock up by my sister-in-law's house and Dave called his Dad to see if he would pick it up for us on the way from Rudy's house to ours. That was no problem, so I prepaid it and left to pick up what I could here. I eventually had to pick up Mal from her shift at the pork plant (poor kid) and when I got back, Dave's Mom was here but his Dad was on a wild goose chase for the movie we sent him for, and he had gone back to Kitchener to a third location of The Beat Goes On. I didn't understand what the problem was since I had an email telling me that Fur was waiting for pickup at the first location we had sent him to, but since I only had a few more hours until our party, an since my father-in-law doesn't keep his cell phone turned on and was unreachable, I had to put it out of my mind and get to cooking. I eventually got a call from Rudy saying that their Dad had called her to let her know he had the movie (and that all the driving around and getting lost -- and his anti-diuretic meds -- had caused him to pee his pants at the store) and to let us know he was on his way here. Meanwhile, my mother-in-law was standing at the door, "Oh, I wonder what's taking Jim so long to get back", and that stress wasn't good for her Alzheimer's, and after he did get home, and after she talked to him at the door, not two minutes later she was in the kitchen with me saying, "I'm just so worried that Jim isn't back yet". So, in my father-in-law came to the kitchen -- the conquering hero who saved Christmas with a three hour movie hunt -- and he handed me the movie Her. I had to say, "But, this isn't it. It was supposed to be Fur." He could have cried. "That's what I told them, but at the first store they said I must mean Her because there is no movie called Fur, but they didn't have it in stock, and they sent me to another store, but they didn't have it, and so on and so on, and then they sent me to the last store where they said they would put it aside for me, but I got lost and was driving around in circles and had to stop three times to ask people to point me in the right direction, and I waited in line for half an hour and then they had to search for it...and it isn't the right movie?" So Dave called the original store and they confirmed that they had our movie, but by now it was 4:30 and they closed at 5, and even though my father-in-law offered to go back and get it, I wouldn't send him out again. Dave finished yelling at the poor guy who answered the phone and said, "I guess we'll get it after Christmas". That wasn't good enough and I told Dave he should call the store back and demand they deliver the movie to Rudy's house (it really is a five minute drive away from there), but when he tried that, the guy on the phone said that neither of the guys at the store drive. So finally, Dave called Rudy and got her to go get the movie (even though she was getting ready for her own party) and she brought it for Kennedy on Christmas. What a fiasco -- but again, many loving family members did what they could (and really went above and beyond) to try and make Christmas as special as possible.

We pulled off another successful Christmas Eve party -- about 30 people came -- and more than one person made a point of telling me that this tradition is important to their families (even Dave's cousin Shannon thanked me at the family dinner on Sunday for giving her Mom and Stepdad a place to spend Christmas Eve every year so they're not alone). 

Dave read The Night Before Christmas to the girls (and hopefully they'll never be too old for that), we got maybe six hours sleep, opened presents (including stockings), I spent a couple hours cooking for brunch, was happy to have all the Thompson side together, and then went to dinner at Ken and Lolo's. 

Christmas is always so exhausting, but there's so much love put into each part that I wouldn't have it any other way.

Bear

It was the night of the falling stars. She took him to the riverbank. They swam in the still, black water. They did not play. They were serious that night. They swam in circles around each other, very solemnly. Then they went to the shore, and instead of shaking himself on her, he lay beside her and licked the water from her body while she, on her back, let the stars fall, one, two, fourteen, a million, it seemed, falling on her, ready to burn her. Once she reached up to one, it seemed so close, but its brightness faded from her grasp, faded into the milky way.

Such a typical Canadian love scene: falling stars and inky swims, sleeping on marsh grass and wakening to a "mysterious green flickering aurora". What is atypical is that the "she" in this scene is a staid librarian from Toronto, spending the summer archiving the contents of a remote island home that had been left to her Historical Institute, and the "he" of the scene is a tame black bear that came with the estate. I learned about this forgotten gem of Canadiana (it won the Governor General's Literary Award for fiction in 1976) from this article that refers to Bear as "the best Canadian novel of all time", and that was a reading challenge I couldn't resist.

At a scant 140 pages, Bear is packed with the Canadian (or at least Ontarian) experience -- from the uptightness of 1970's Toronto to the swarming blackflies and water-skiers of Northern Ontario Cottage Country; from the brief glimpse of genteel British immigrant-life of the mid-1800's to a solitary backwoods woman who runs traplines and tans hides for a living; from a hundred-year-old Native woman who converses with bears to a librarian's hopeful search for an annotated edition of Roughing it in the Bush -- this book couldn't be more Canadian if it was soaked in maple syrup and used as a puck in a street hockey shinny game (Car!). But all of that is just incidental -- this is the story of Lou: too smart, too independent, too undomesticated to find love, she has immersed herself in her work, and at 27, is considered past her prime (so many reviewers call Lou "middle-aged", but at 27?). Sent to Cary Island to archive the contents of its only home, Lou -- a city girl with no love for either nature or animals -- has a transformative experience that frees her from the unsatisfying gender politics of sexual relations.

Bear has enjoyed a surge in popularity based on this recent Imgur post, and although I can understand why a love affair between a woman and a bear makes for good internet smartassery, this book isn't really smutty or overly graphic. Gender issues (so much more urgent in the North America of 1976 than today, no matter what our culture of victimisation declares) are at the forefront as are the changing roles of women due to the sexual revolution -- Lou (a sexually ambiguous name is also enjoyed by the last owner of Cary Island, a woman named "Colonel" ) is no shy virgin and it is eventually revealed that she has had long affairs and one night stands, tried sex with women and inanimate objects, been told to have an abortion, and has a regular hookup with her boss. Self-supporting and with access to physical contact without messy domestic entanglements, Lou has come a long way Baby but, as I imagine was the case for some percentage of the early feminists, she found the lack of emotional connection to be coldly unsatisfying. 

Yet, when the weather turned and the sun filtered into even her basement windows, when the sunbeams were laden with spring dust and the old tin ashtrays began to stink of a winter of nicotine and contemplation, the flaws in her plodding private world were made public, even to her, for although she loved old shabby things, things that had already been loved and suffered, objects with a past, when she saw that her arms were slug-pale and her fingerprints grained with old, old ink, that the detritus with which she bedizened her bulletin boards was curled and valueless, when she found that her eyes would no longer focus in the light, she was always ashamed, for the image of the Good Life long ago stamped on her soul was quite different from this, and she suffered in contrast.

What works brilliantly in Bear is that what Lou eventually does find fulfilling comes from within herself, and to that end, it could only have been a nonhuman lover that elicited the change in a manner free from gender- and sexual-politics.

I am happy to have stumbled upon this book as it mixes so well with my regular reading interests: not only is this my third Canadian book with a starring bear this year -- along with The Bear and All the Broken Things-- but I recently read another novella ("The Seven-Ounce Man" from Julip) in which a character is determined to test the transformative power of sleeping outdoors under a bear skin. Although I don't know if there's authentic history to that belief, I was mindful of it as Lou spent the night wrapped in an actual bear. This book is more important than the Imgur-inspired mockery might suggest, but as that post led to the article I read, and as that led to me finding Bear, I will be grateful for serendipity in all its modes. Is it "the best Canadian novel of all time"? I'm not sure about that, but without knowing the competition, I'll agree with the GG jury and say Bear was no doubt the best Canadian book of 1976.

And to be more graphic in this more private forum, this is the first sexual encounter:

"Oh bear," she said, rubbing his neck. She got up and took her clothes off because she was hot. She lay down on the far side of the bear, away from the fire, and a little away from him and began to make love to herself.

The bear roused himself from his somnolence, shifted and turned. He put out his moley tongue. It was fat, and, as the Cyclopaedia says, vertically ridged. He began to lick her.

A fat, freckled, pink and black tongue. It licked. It rasped, to a degree. It probed. It felt very warm and good and strange. What the hell did Byron do with his bear? she wondered.

He licked. He probed. She might have been a flea he was searching for. He licked her nipples stiff and scoured her navel. With little nickerings she moved him south.

She swung her hips and made it easy for him.

"Bear, bear," she whispered, playing with his ears. The tongue that was muscular but also capable of lengthening itself like an eel found all her secret places. And like no human being she had ever known it persevered in her pleasure. When she came, she whimpered, and the bear licked away her tears.

The books I read don't tend to have explicit sex scenes, but so far as such things go, and in the context of this book itself, I don't find that offensive. In response to that newspaper article I linked to (and coincidentally, my Discus username over there is Mamabear, lol) some offended prude wrote:  next Christmas season there'll be a book(s) to get your loved ones glorifying pedophelia too. Wonder if Ms. Keeler will be an advocate for that as well. I wanted to reply with some reference to Lolita (despite the pedophilia, considered the greatest English-language novel of all time...) but I wasn't spoiling for a comments sections fight. That day.

This alternate book cover seems to be unnecessarily salacious and contributed to the Imgur snickering: