When objective clashes with subjective..

"Love" is Angela Carter's fifth novel and was first published in 1971. With surgical precision it charts the destructive emotional war between a young woman, her husband, and his disruptive brother as they move through a labyrinth of betrayal, alienation, and lost connections. This revised edition has lost none of Angela Carter's haunting power to evoke the ebb of the 1960s, and includes an afterword, which describes the progress of the survivors into the anguish of middle age.

“The Bloody Chamber" is a invoking novel which reappropriates patriachal western fairy tales, such as 'Bluebeard', to challenge notions of male superiority and the objectification of women. Carters talent as a writer enables her to utilize the most vivid and violent use of imagery and language to demonstrate the way in which women have been explioted in western society. This powerful novel will appeal to all who are prepared to open their minds and accept feminist ideology over patriachal ideas.

That is making decisions based in a situation you have kicked, banged your head and threw yourself over to find that a part of you still mourns and wails in agony. And when that happens I try to drown its deafening tones with distractions. I spy the moon peeking over at the back of my mind as I looked over to the pride of singapore skylines. The thorny blue lights from the esplanade a night twinkle cool and the stuffy hot air blowing behind me from the kitchen vents of the foodcourt I am at, condenses my sweat to stick my blouse to my skin.

No stars as the skies continued to be polluted by the ground lights below. Red, green yellow sparkles flourescenct in the distance. I couldn’t reconcile the blistering coldness I felt inside with the dank humidity which marks most tropical nights here in singapore. Mummy dearest was on her way here for dinner and as I lit a fag, my eyes wandered to take in the muffled conversations and dinner fare of the rest of the diners. I wasn't feeling very famished when i realised how the beautiful almost sad scenery over the balcony its soft pride lost to mere hunger. Absentmindedly I glanced again to my phone and smiled at the latest replies to the hint of anguish sms I just sent to my targets accompanying a snapshot of the skyline I took. *picksatscabfromrecentbattlescars* and as typically of me, silent musings trailed the smoke from my lit fag. I settled down with the 2 books I just bought at mph. The 20% discount poster was too loud for my palpating heart; weak to the lure of cheap books to ignore, so in I went to browse and succumbed to its promise of sweet distractions. Happily, I flipped the pages and an array of paper and pens littered the table.

Mummy shares the same passion for books and we both have a penchant for love stories. She loved paulo coelho and already warned me not to get her another. It is mother’s day *sson* so a book would be nice, no? I caught sight of ‘The Sadeian Woman : An exercise in Cultural History by Angela Carter’ but I my strings were pulled to the need for something more lyrical and perhaps, mummy would be too overwhelmed with the brass provocations of ms. Carter as she was and still remembered as a prominent icon of the feminist movement. I wanted to introduce her to the ms.carter for the sexy elucidity of her versions of truth first. She can peel ms. carter later at her pleasure. So I trooped over to the counter to ask for the rest of the titles available and picked perfect *yeay!* 'LOVE' for her and for being so smart, ‘THE BLOODY CHAMBER and other stories’ for me to carnivourishly devour. In a relationship, where does one being end and the other begin, what happens to the individuals who become co-dependant? Love, ms. carter suggests, is not the romantic vision we hold esteemed but, often, a cruel and injurious game in which there are no victors.

Doesn’t it so mirrors our own questions about love? Just that when the overshadows of both begin to merge and when the black petulant darkness hinges to break forth, it then snatches one unaware into an abyss unknown; without the light of courage, the life as we know it snuffs submissively itself out. Why blame it on ego? Why blame it on gender? Why blame it of incongruity? I hastily scribbled my thoughts to trail after on my journal and enjoyed dinner with mummy dearest. ms. mermaid was the center of our conversations and of course the rants and vents of work. Explanations offered for lost time and the familiarity shared between us followed the trickle of time till it was time to go. The night could have been endless but all good things have to end ;p

Back home, I shared my latest find with shikino. She looked at me and asked if I consider myself a feminist when she recounted her impressions of ms.carter as a student at ntu *errrrm* “no..not really.” I stammered my reply, trying to be rational about my answer and bobby interjected with his own views about feminism being too extreme for his taste. Aren’t alllllllllll ‘-Isms’ frivolously tut tutted away as extremes, I silently fumed. but shikino glossed over the conversation to the form of characters ms. carter conjures. And that was the cue for me to excuse myself and retreat to my den for my date with ms. carter into the bloody chamber.

Holiday was spent langourously in bought solitude and today weather brought on the perfect excuse to be sick. In a bit I will get ready for my date to meet fusae and mustafa all the way from japan. Promised them supper at Jalan Kayu and am waiting for her to call to annouce touch down. I think i'll give the visit to the night safari for another time if I can't have no one agree for a hop on the tram. Meeting one stranger per night is more than i could bear for today. Updates of the love story of fusae of japan and mustafa of turkey will ensue ;)

stay sane,
amyemeelea