Screamy赵爷对《Who's Sorry Now?》的笔记(4)

Who's Sorry Now?
  • 书名: Who's Sorry Now?
  • 作者: Howard Jacobson
  • 页数: 336
  • 出版社: Vintage
  • 出版年: 2003-4
  • 第68页
    Historians with big tits were particularly voguish, but a philologist with a nice arse or even just a pretty face was also in with a shout. 'Bad luck if you happen to be George Eliot,' Kreitman had said. 'But, Dadd, I'm not George Eliot,' Juliet had reminded him. Hazel had listened to that exchange while sitting airing grievances on her office phone. Inexpressible, the satisfaction it gave her. But, Daddy, I'm not George Eliot. What a long way back that went! What a merciless stripping down of however many thousands of years of male hypocrisy in the matter of beauty and intelligence. Now deal with this -- the beauty you commodified we are commodifying back, so what was that about our not being intelligent? Daddy, our beauty is our intelligence. The thing has happened that you always dreaded: we have learned to exploit your weakness for our weakness. Only this time not in a whorehouse. And you can't be certain whether we are laughing at ourselves or at you.
    2011-07-13 04:43:21 回应
  • 第165页
    Dotty opened her eyes very wide, not because she was surprised by the amount of time her sister and her brother-in-law had been together but because she had read that opening her eyes wide for long periods prevented crow's feet. 'All the more reason for accepting it's over,' she said. 'A hundred years ago you'd have been dead already. Victorian expectations of one marriage to one man no longer apply. It's mortality that decides morality. Always has been. A woman of the twenty-first century can expect to live until she's eighty-five at least. With your constitution you'll probably make it to a hundred and five. That means you'll need a minimum - a minimum, Charlie! - of three husbands. Let this one go.'
    2011-07-14 04:21:11 回应
  • 第172页
    They didn't have fault lines running through them, on one side of which they kicked husbands off the premises, like queens of infinite space, and on the other pronounced prick as though it were the brand name of a tuck-shop lolly. No fault line, no desire; and if he no longer desire them (or, indeed, they him) there was no point seeing them. Here was the catch in his erotic reasoning. His social life waited on his dick. His dick waited on his imagination. So if his imagination was not stirred, he ate alone.
    2011-07-14 04:45:12 回应
  • 第225页
    Not so much the nerve centre of the Kutur, then, as a hospice for it? Same difference, in Kreitman's view. The Kultur as shaped by Brish loved a hospice as it loved itself, revered infirmity and thrived in sick rooms. Old men on dirps pulled the levers, while young men old before their time, like Dotty's beau, padded in and out of the wards, took down their memoirs and did their bidding.
    2011-07-15 03:31:16 回应