Cult of the Damned, Vampires, Children and Literature

Why put up with high school and family life when you can live in eternal bliss with your demon lover? This is the question posed by Stephanie Meyer’s "Twilight" series, which apparently is very popular among teenage girls—and their mothers.

My friend Abby has read it and offers the following critique: “I'm on book Three now, basically like watching crappy TV: a relaxing waste of time. The heroine, Bella, falls in love with the school bad boy: Edward, a vampire who is bad, but good at heart (albeit controlling and dominating). He is perfect at everything and she is human and flawed, but bless his little heart, he loves her anyway. Isn't that nice? It's so nice that Bella quickly decides she needs to become forever damned herself so she can leave her human life and be with him forever even though this sets a whole bunch of things into motion (four long books worth).

Stephenie Meyer clearly has read the classics and name drops stuff from Wuthering Heights, Romeo and Juliet and Pride and Prejudice in an embarrassingly transparent way. But despite all the pages, the characters remain pretty flat. Bella isn't really torn that much about loosing her humanity she's just trying to figure out a way to get around the annoying obstacles that keep preventing her from experiencing eternal happiness with her stone cold lover.

The book trivializes life and glorifies the life of a bloodsucking vampire. They are all powerful and in Meyers’ novels there is very little drawback, so you don't understand why we don't all just become vampires. Unlike Wuthering Heights, their love is pretty straightforward love at first sight kind of stuff: He's hot so she likes him even though he's kind of a murderer.”

This sounds markedly different from the last vampire book I read, Anne Rice’s “Interview with The Vampire.” It was later turned into a movie in 1994, which I also enjoyed, despite the fact I am not a Tom Cruise or a Brad Pitt fan. As for the book, I agree with Wikipedia’s assertion that “the confessional tone, from the vampire's perspective, touching on existential despair and the sheer boredom of lifeless immortality” sets the book apart from its genre predecessors. The goth glamour is infused with, at least one the vampires, Louis’, genuine repugnance for the life he leads and the “love story” in the book is anything but conventional. Louis’ mentor/vampire companion, Lestat, creates a “daughter” for the pair, when they come upon the nearly lifeless child of a Plague victim. Over 65 years, the girl’s mind matures into that of an intelligent, assertive woman forever trapped inside the body of a six-year old child, who comes to hate Lestat for what he has done to her. Rice also creates an intriguing ambiance, having done some research on the “period” elements of eighteenth century France and New Orleans.

According to Abby, Twilight is “like a “Dawson’s Creek” coven of vampires--campier and less thought-out than “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” which prided itself on campiness. What is most disturbing, given the book’s target teen audience, is the heroine, Bella’s eagerness to drop everything for her glamorous coven 'family.’ This no doubt echoes the desperate search for acceptance that drives so many teenagers to become groupies or druggies, or otherwise give up themselves entirely, in order to join an "exclusive" group. She's just so thrilled that they will have her. As for the love story, not much depth there either. Whenever he touches her or kisses her she talks about how his perfect face makes her forget to breathe, how she can't stay angry at him and how she feels inadequate next to him. This isn't true love, this is the kind of infatuation girls felt for their posters of Kirk Cameron.”

Abby and I were discussing how gothic fluff like the “Twilight” series is ultimately far more disturbing than a book with an overtly sinister theme like Nabokov’s “Lolita.” Not only is Nabokov’s language light years ahead of Meyers’ in terms of depth and nuance, but the choice of narrator has a large impact as well. Despite giving her name to the title of the story, Lolita is essentially ambiguous, merely a repository for her captor’s fantasies. Given her young age, her mother’s death and her stepfather’s custody, it is not apparent that she willingly accepts the relationship with her captor. On the contrary, she runs away every chance she gets. Meanwhile, in “Twilight,” it only takes 20 pages of the first book, for Bella to realize she's in ‘luv’ with Edward, give up all consideration for herself, and decide she will do anything to be with him. By the third book, Bella is in some type of mortal danger (as usual) and the coven swarms around her to protect her with Edward her boyfriend/manager/father calling the shots. He makes decisions for her (in her best interest) and she rolls her eyes and complies. There's another character, Jacob, who is in love with Bella, but he's a werewolf. He fights with Edward over her and then ends up teaming up with him (to help control her and make decisions for her).”

Anyway, I found Abby’s email review of “Twilight” rather hilarious and thought I’d share it. Not sure I’d read any of the books myself, although, never say never because something that popular probably is distracting. Hopefully, the references to “Jane Eyre,” “Wuthering Heights,” “Pride and Prejudice” and “Romeo and Juliet” will inspire the series’ young readers to pick up these classics and discover a richer world, along with heroines who refuse to compromise their identity and values, or pay a real price for it, if they do.

I read my share of Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steele as a schoolgirl—mostly because these books were readily available on my grandmother’s bookshelf, my maternal grandmother, I will say. My paternal grandmother tended to favor moderately more genteel historical romances, usually set in England or the American South. One day, as a fifth grader in the library of Christ the King parochial school, Sister Patricia Geary caught me reading Colleen McCullough’s “The Thornbirds,” a novel about an Australian woman who has an affair with a Catholic priest. Rather than making me feel bad about my reading selection, she simply said: “I can see our reading program must not be challenging you. I am starting a new reading class next year and I’d like to invite you to join.” Sister Patricia is my first memory of a truly great teacher. I joined her class the next year.”

Winter Garden, February 2009

Thanks to my father for taking these pictures, from our garden in Atlanta. There is something I love about the delayed gratification of a garden. All these specimens were planted last Spring, and this is the first time they have bloomed for us. There is something so cheerful about plants that will flower during the dreary month of February. With the exception of the daffodils, these are all fragrant plants--all suitable for the Southeastern US.


Edgeworthia close-up

Edgeworthia in its container

Sweetbox

Daffodils

Cinnamon cindy camellias.

Madrid Blog--Caprichos I, Taxi Driver and Philosopher

In 1799, Francisco Goya published a series of 80 prints titled “Caprichos.” Per the Diario de Madrid, the subject matter was chosen from

"... the multitude of follies and mistakes common in every civil society and from the vulgar prejudices and lies authorized by custom, ignorance or self-interest, those that he has thought most fit to furnish material for ridicule, and at the same time to exercise the artist’s imagination..."

The fact that I don’t drive in Madrid has altered my perceptions in daily life. Whereas, in Atlanta, the car provided a little climatized bubble transporting me, my music, my drive-through Starbucks decaf mocha and my progeny from one place to another; here I walk, take taxis, buses and the metro. This brings me into contact with all kinds of people, none of them from any exalted social, political or business plane. They do, however, have plenty to say.


Taxi Driver and Philosopher


Taxis in Madrid are plentiful, reasonably priced and most often driven by native Spaniards who know their way around. While few of them speak English, I will note that, I have never had a driver who didn’t speak Spanish. In the US, in contrast, English-speaking has been hit or miss the last few times I’ve taken a taxi there.

The Dueña claims that most taxi drivers she talks to belong to the Partido Popular (Spain’s conservative party). I am not sure I can generalize their political affiliations. What is true is that, in Spain, the taxi driver is an independent business owner, who most likely owns his own car and pays a large sum for his taxi license--around 100,000 euros, some part of which can be borrowed-- if I remember correctly.

Mostly, they listen to music or talk radio. This is not optional or tailored to the passenger’s preferences. The talk radio tends to fall into three categories, in descending order of popularity 1) “Futbol” (soccer) coverage, either live, if there’s a match, or, failing that, philosophical discussions of the goings on of various teams. In Madrid, that is almost always Real Madrid (pronounced “Ray-al” and meaning “royal”) 2) radio shows focusing on various depressing social themes such as a) our social values are falling apart—they young are no longer polite or b) unemployment—its devastating consequences or 3) “variety show” talk radio—jokes such as two Mexican prostitutes are talking. One of them asks the other what she asked Santa Claus for, for Christmas. The other one replies: “The usual--500 pesos plus the hotel room” or a whole episode devoted to the devastating consequences of cellulitis.

Occasionally I get one who’s in the mood to talk.

He notes that I am a foreigner and asks me what I do. I say that I am retired after selling my business two years earlier. I ask what the entrepreneurial climate is like in Spain.

“Entrepreneurial climate? Take fifty euros, bury them under a tree. Know what you get?”
“No”
“Thirty!”
“Señora, you need to understand that Spain is a Catholic country. It’s not like the protestant, Anglo-Saxon countries where work gives you some kind of value. You know what work is according to the Catholic interpretation of the Bible?”
“What?”
“A punishment from God.”
I mention that I read an article in the Financial Times, that the British are complaining because a Spanish conglomerate bought up their airports and has drastically reduced the seating in order to make room for more shops.
“Well, that’s the first time I ever heard of us owning anything of significance abroad.”


He points out the French ambassador’s residence as we are driving through the city. I thank him, but tell him I have never met the French ambassador, couldn’t tell you what his name is and that my only dealing with the French government abroad involves low-level civil “servants.”
He continues. “They say that the French ambassador was the mistress of Queen Isabel II of Spain and that he fathered, Alfonso XII. Well somebody had to. Her husband (her double-first cousin, Francisco de Asís de Borbón) was a homosexual.”
“Well I guess you got your fill of French kings anyway with Pepe Botella (the brother of Napoleon I and ruler of Spain during the French Empire) and later the Borbónes.
He says something else about the monarchy that I can’t remember.
I ask: “Were there any good kings or queens?”
He responds: “No, in my mind, they were all bad. Do you know why we have a king now?”
“No.”
“Because Franco gave us a king, that’s why. He didn’t have a son and was too machista to make his daughter his successor. He never asked the Spanish people whether this was what they wanted.”
“Oh.”

We pass a Starbucks.
He tells me: “When Starbucks first came to Spain, I said to myself, there is no way these stores will be a success. Who ever heard of a store that only sells coffee, where you can’t smoke a cigarette or order an alcoholic drink? It doesn’t make sense to us, you know. Why would you want to drink your coffee out of a cardboard cup and take it away, in the street. When we drink coffee, this should come in real ceramic cup, something that has weight to it. Plus, isn’t the point of drinking coffee, to sit down, linger and take a break? Hand it to the Americans to turn the coffee break into one more part of the to-go lifestyle.”

The God of Carnage/The Queen of Love and Beauty

I just missed Yazmina Reza’s play “Le Dieu du Carnage” (Un Dios Salvaje) in Madrid. The premise sounds hilarious.

From Wikipedia: the play is about two pairs of parents. The child of one couple hurt the other at school, so the parents meet up in order to discuss the matter in a civilized manner. However, as the evening goes on, the parents become increasingly childlike, resulting in the whole evening going into chaos.

From the Times Online (commenting on London performance): …All the characters are unheard. Nobody gives the other person time. It’s an accurate assessment of where we’re at. There’s a real urge...to hear the word “sorry”, but nobody is willing to say it out loud because of the litigious hand that hangs over everyone now… You take two children having a fight - who says sorry to whom, and whether they should or not - and you blow that up to their parents and beyond that to any political argument. We live in a therapy culture. Nobody is at fault. But if nobody’s at fault, then nobody takes responsibility.

For those of you how live in (or are traveling to NYC), it’s set to open there, and will star Jeff Daniels, Hope Davis, James Gandolfini, Marcia Gay Harden. I like the sub-header—“A Comedy of Manners…Without the Manners.”

I would have liked the theme anyway, but the irony is that something like that (though in no way, taken to those exaggerated levels) actually happened to me.

My oldest and, for 3 ½ years, only--child is a girl, The Queen of Love and Beauty. She is affectionate, used to have exquisite manners, still has a sly wit and a head full of blond curls. When she was younger, I dressed her in Liberty floral smocks, taught her to speak French, and took her on business trips with me. People who met the Queen congratulated me. I would look upon other people’s horrid children, and feel sorry for them. Verily, verily, the Creator looked down on my pride. And he was not pleased. He gave me three sons to teach me a lesson. And now, I’m not so pleased. The glare of other people’s judgment burns my cheeks, and the person I sometimes feel sorry for is me.

But, back to the Queen…I looked at the world and saw that it was rough place. Determined that the Queen should have advantages, I saw to it, that in addition to her schoolwork, she studied dance, so that she should acquire grace, and martial arts so that she could defend herself. So, imagine my surprise, when one day, when she was in second grade, a school administrator phones to tell me that my daughter has been struck on the face, by a boy in her class. I am taken aback. It’s not just that my daughter has taken three years of martial arts, it’s the fact that the boy who struck her is a light-weight. My daughter could take that child down in a second if she wanted to.

I asked her what had happened. There was no provocation. She said she saw the first blow coming and blocked it. This took him by surprise and he came back at her even harder with his other fist, which took her by surprise. And he hit her.

“And what next?”
“I called the playground monitor, and reported what happened, just like they taught me in the “How to deal with bullies” class in karate.
“Oh.”

The playground monitor saw everything. The school reacted by suspending the boy for a day, since he had a prior record of that kind of behavior. The boy’s parents made him call and apologize. My daughter didn’t give the incident a second thought.

But I did. I restrained myself, but what I really wanted to tell my daughter was, “Honey, the next time somebody lays a hand on you, you take him down. You ruin the little twerp, so he thinks better before trying something like that again. Clearly my daughter is more mature than I am.

It wasn’t just the boy’s behavior that bothered me, it was the phone conversation I had with his mother before his forced apology. His mother had some sort of executive job with a title like “corporate responsibility” at a multi-national corporation. She said something like “Well I’m very disappointed in Little Twerp’s behavior, but you know how he and your daughter like to tease each other.”

I didn’t really know how to process what she said. Her son and my daughter had been friends in kindergarten, but hadn’t interacted much since that time. I wondered what part of “tease” involved striking a person on the face. It sounded as if she was dismissing extremely inappropriate behavior, making it sound as if this had been “mutual,” a simple childish flirtation. After all, “children will be children.”

But then I remembered a story my sister told me about a boy she liked in first grade. She said that she really didn’t know what to do at the time, so she ran straight into him and knocked him down. My sister was a bruiser and the boy was never tall. Not tall, but definitely charming. I remember a picture of my sister and that boy, smiling and sitting together in the branches of the oak tree in our back yard. They were teenagers, then, and still friends. Sadly, he worked for that financial company that had their headquarters in the World Trade Center. He later died in 911.

And, I wondered, maybe I was being over-sensitive, taking a childhood situation and completely contextualizing it in an adult, feminist perspective. That, being said, I am glad to say that, whatever grief my boys have given me, and that includes one year of 3-yr old preschool when I got lots of “Oops I forgot to be nice to my friends” notes--they have never, ever hit a girl.

Two of my friends had this advice: 1) When “situations” arise between your child and another child, call that child’s parent and say: “I would like to speak to ‘the aggressor child’.” Ask their child to come to your house and apologize, in person, to your child. 2) If the situation involves boy-girl aggression (this is from a friend whose buxom 8th grade daughter received some unwelcome comments from a male classmate): have your husband call the boy’s father and discuss with him. They will all take this more seriously.

La Guerra de las Galaxias

I do take my children to more “cultural” activities, I really do, but last weekend, I needed a family outing, to which I could actually convince my husband to accompany me, that also takes into account the fact that I have two six year old boys. They are interested primarily in two things—fast vehicles, fighting and weapons.

So, thus, we found ourselves at Star Wars the Exhibition in Madrid last Saturday. Unfortunately, all the places for Jedi school had already been filled up until later in the evening. Naturally, this invalidated all our bribes of the morning—“If you don’t stop fighting with your brother, pick up your clothes, brush your teeth, etc. You won’t be going to Jedi school. Only the worthy padawans make it to Jedi status, and so on...If you plan to attend this exhibit with your children, reserve ahead for Jedi school.

I honestly wasn’t expecting much, maybe some old props or vintage 1970s Star Wars dolls, but actually the exhibition was very well put together. What impressed me the most, was how much more money, resources, and technology had been poured into telling you the story of the fictitious world of the six Star Wars movies, than a really good exhibit like King Tut and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs. The latter was acceptable to the boys because it involved mummies and tombs; we saw it the last time we were in Atlanta. Sadly, the boys know far more about Tatooine than they do about Egyptian antiquity.

As far as what was interesting to me, as an adult, two things really—the concept drawings for the movies produced by various illustrators, miniature set mock-ups and the story boards where you see the stage and filming directions (High angle camera, “Darth Vader falls into the void”) with a corresponding cartoon like-drawing. I enjoyed getting a glimpse into the creative process that produced at least 2 (in my mind) masterpieces. And even if the prequel movies weren’t my cup of tea (nor “Return of the Jedi” after age 15 or so), I still had to admire the creativity and ingenuity that went into producing all those special effects and stunning visuals--quirky little details such as the fact that falling grains of salt mimic falling water, which is how they filmed the “waterfall” on Princess Amidala’s home planet.

What I did not anticipate was the ambush on the way out.

Unfortunately, it did not occur to me to negotiate with my husband how we were going to get past the gift store. My husband and I have different philosophies on various issues of parenting. I remember, as a child, feeling that a battery-operated light-up light sabre (that I didn’t have) was probably the one thing standing between me and official Jedi-hood. However, later, as an adult, I decided that delayed gratification and having to work for things might not have been so bad. My parenting ambition at this point is to “Not raise brats.”

I had my line ready: “Your treat was getting taken to this exhibit. As for the gift store, you’ll get nothing and like it.”

My husband’s approach, on the other hand, tends towards “What would I have wanted as a six year old?” A big ass light sabre, the Clone Wars 2.5 blu-ray, the Clone Warrior costume with better quality made-in-China mask (as opposed to the one that rips apart after two wearings), the latest Star Wars PS videogame and so on. Forget that my boys have already broken 4 “official” Star Wars light sabers whose technological bells and whistles put my 1970s desiderata to shame. Forget that they already have 2 clone warrior costumes and one Darth Vadar costume (albeit with the cheapy masks that didn’t last).

At some point, the children realized they were going to get some of what they wanted, but not everything. Witness the power of the Dark Side taking over. My three older children, who are tolerable on an individual basis, have been known to descend into the worst sort of snarling, yelping wolf pack behavior when together, preferably at moments calculated to produce maximum embarrassment to their parents. They starting tearing around the store, wildly pointing to things, letting out howls of “I Waaaaaaaaan’t” and fighting among each other, assuming that whatever the one got was going to subtract from the other’s loot. In short, complete mayhem. I have never been so ashamed. Meanwhile, the Spanish children at the store stood quietly waiting in line to get the 1 euro pen or 10 euro souvenir book their parents had promised them.

Afterwards, I discussed this with a friend, whose parenting philosophies I admire. She had the following good advice for how to handle the gift store ambush next time. “Give them each a budget of 10 euros at the store. That way they learn what things cost and, if they want something that’s worth more, they have to work together and decide how they’re going to pool their resources.”

The Secret Life of Bourgeois Women

We are having lunch with the Dueña at the Barril de Arguelles. We’ve come to that part of a lazy Spanish lunch, the kind that I don’t take very often, that starts at 2:20pm and ends at 5:30pm, the point where you’ve finished the coffee, and you aren’t quite ready to go. You’ve moved on to the fortified alcohol.

My husband is discussing the lifestyle change involved in moving from suburban America (Atlanta) to life in the more urban part of Madrid. “My wife is outside the apartment from morning until the afternoon. I don’t know what she does all day. I suspect she has a lover.”

The Dueña belongs to a Spanish generation that made the transition from the rigid post-Civil War era to the freewheeling post-Franco era, where, as my husband put it: “They had to close down the local titty bar in Puetro Pollensa because you could see the same thing for free on the beach.” Spanish cultural background aside, the Duena is familiar to me, if I am not to her. I grew up with women like her--well-bred women of a certain age whose demeanor of outward respectability concealed a very sly, wicked sense of humor. Nursing her shot glass of hierba, the Dueña replies “Pues, hace bien.” (Well then, more power to her) My husband, who had been looking to this older female figure to reinforce his disapproval of possibly wayward women, is silenced.

What is the wife in question, who is sitting there, quietly listening to all this, thinking? She reads a lot. She thinks about nineteenth century literature—novels like Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary, where men write about what they would do if they were a well-heeled, married woman with a certain amount of leisure time on their hands. They inevitably come to the same conclusion: Adultery!

If she had felt more awake, hadn’t consumed some hierba herself, or felt the need to impress anybody with how witty and urbane she was, she might have offered the kind of response the comment deserved: “Why there’s a pleasant idea, I hadn’t thought of. Now I’m going to enjoy a little reverie interviewing all the candidates.” But mostly she wonders, herself...

What is it that she does all day?

In the business dinners she attended with her husband, people were generally too well-bred to ask her that question. They don’t need to. They’ve already sized her up. They ask her a few polite questions about her children, and move on to truly exciting topics involving what currently is hot in technology, who’s making the most money, who’s killing it with market share and industry buzz.

She asks herself. What is it that she does all day?

She makes lists. These lists involve transfers of money, faxes to be signed and sent, invoices to be paid for her husband’s new company, a check to be written for the annual fund of the children’s old school, wrangling with the phone company, figuring out why a service has not been activated on her husband’s new cell phone; she signs for a letter, duly notes an appointment on her calendar, tries to remember if this is sport’s week at her boys’ school, which means that they need to wear their PE uniforms the first three days instead of on their regular PE days. She goes to the bank to get cash to pay the people who work for them and to the post office to mail things. If it’s the holiday season, unusual things have to be procured for the boys’ Christmas Play—one boy needs a reindeer headband, “un diadema de rena.”

She was proud of herself for finding a costume shop and wading through the naughty nurse and dominatrix costumes until she actually found what she was looking for…until she got to the play and her son told her that all the other boys’ mothers got them headbands with red bells on them and that his reindeer headgear, a cheap felt made-in-China production, already has a lop ear where one of the other boys pulled on it. Her daughter attends the French Lycee, where there are no Christmas plays, but they do have strike days that have to also be duly noted on the calendar.

Some days it’s a wild goose chase where she goes to three different ministry buildings looking for the elusive Form 790 for a friend who has used to live in Spain and needs it for immigration. The friend gently notes in her email that that she also asked somebody else for help with this, but the ministry is only open in the morning and the other woman “has a job.” When She finally gets to the security line to enter the ministry and is trying to keep track of the gate-keeper’s explanation of how much tax must be paid, where to mail the form back, and some special certification that is required for the accompanying passports, she notices a giant poster with block letters against a yellow square: “Ahora todo es mas simple.” (Now everything is simpler).

She feels so weak after riding in taxis and the metro, that a cup of chocolate con churros at “Maestro Churreria” seems divine. She soon regrets this when she starts to feel queasy during the taxi ride to her daughter’s school in the suburbs, time she uses to take on the phone company and their nine levels of automated voice menus, en route to deliver the swim bag that has been forgotten that day, note to self—Tuesday is swim day. She had briefly considered not taking an hour out of the day to go to the school and back so that her daughter might “learn a lesson in responsibility” but decides that aforementioned daughter’s conduct has been improving lately and, thus, deserves a break.

She gets home, gets on the computer and Skype rings. She has forgotten that it’s a Tuesday afternoon and thus the one two-hour slot a week, where she works on the play with her friend back in Atlanta. They decompress, talk about their week, the scandals and corruption with the TARP distribution in the US. She remembers that she met John Thain, at a New York Stock Exchange holiday photo op with The Former Employer—the entity that purchased her company. The Former Employer, like, the Ministry, had a mandatory decorating scheme that included lots of self-congratulatory posters. They were also very proud of their record on Ethics. At orientation/integration day they handed out red Frisbees with the words “Ethics!” printed on them. They talked to her and her colleagues with the patronizing tone and distaste that adults reserve for wayward children who 1) will not be able to understand the complexity of their lofty ideals 2) if left to their own devices, will defecate all over them. Sure enough, somewhere in the memorabilia drawer of the basement, there was a picture of her husband, the company officers and beetle-eyed, non-blinking John Thain.

I tell my friend: “I’ve met an infamous Personage.”
She’s non-plussed: “Get over yourself. There’s a lot of those people out there, at this moment.”
I persist: “I know, but he’s publicly known and I’ve got a picture. Think I should upload it to Facebook?” which makes us laugh.

We maybe get one hour of actual progress made on the play. It feels painstaking, but we’re moving forward. We’re on the last act now and our deadline for finishing and editing is the end of the children’s school year. Then the children come home, there’s dinner to be thought about, homework to be supervised, notes to teachers to be written. One day rolls into the next.

My husband’s comment that December lunch makes me think of Belle de Jour—a 1967 Luis Buñuel-directed movie, starring the young Catherine Deneuve as a respectable upper-middle class woman with an alternative life. One of my former male bosses loved that movie (not a boss from The Former Employer, I note. Their human resources department, which boasted an incentive program called “Brave New World,” would have frowned on such discourse as a Title VII risk). Back to “Belle de Jour” It’s a good movie, if you like foo-foo arty movies, or you happen to be interested in the theme above. I liked the movie. For that matter, I used to enjoy reading the “Belle de Jour” blog. She was a good writer. I absently wonder if subject matter like “Diary of London call girl” is what it takes to achieve Guardian “Blog of the Year” status.