Life isn’t always completely humdrum and serious. I’ve come to realize that life has a sense of humour and that if I pay attention, I can see when jokes happen. Yes, I said jokes happen, as in I’ve gotten to be part of jokes or be present when they occur.These little, sometimes unexpected, humorous bits that are woven into the tapestry of life add to its beauty and can add a little cheer when life feels a bit humdrum.
So there’s a popular Bob Marley song (cue easy-going reggae music) “Baby don’t worry, about a thing. Cuz every little thing’s gonna be alright”. I love it; it’s inspirational and fun and catchy (actually I just stuck the song in my mind by typing those lyrics). Anyway, on several mornings, I’ve been woken up by birds. These wonderful feathered friends have, for some reason unknown to myself, decided to flap their wings as loudly as they possibly can, and sit on the window nearest to my head and make noise in the morning before I’m ready to wake up. Yes, I said make noise, not sing, mainly because the sounds they make aren’t their usual happy, tuneful chirping. Needless to say, it became irritating after a couple days. Then I remembered the Bob Marley song (you were probably wondering why I put that at the beginning of the paragraph, right?), especially the lines in the verse where he sings “Three little birds/ Were on my doorstep/ Singing sweet songs/ Of melodies pure and true” and I had to smile. My experience is a little bit different though; my lyrics would probably be more like this:
Woke up this morning
Peered at the rising sun
Two mischievous birds
Were on my window
Making noises
While I tried to sleep…
So I basically had my own version of a song happen to me. It may not be laugh-out-loud funny, but I think it can make it to the chuckle-and-shake-your-head category of humour at least.
Stay tuned for part 2, where I answer the age-old question “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
Charles Dickens was an incredible wordsmith; I don’t know what I love about his writing more: his writing style, the interesting characters he put in his stories (I wish I could meet some of them) or the way he ties everyone and everything together at the end of his stories. I haven’t read all of his novels, but I think that “A Tale of Two Cities” is my favourite one thus far, and while I can’t see the future, I strongly suspect that it will always be my favourite of all his works. I should mention here though, that the first time (because as an avid reader, I’ve read this book countless times) I read this book, I almost gave up halfway through the first page. Yes, I am serious, I put the book down while I was reading the first page. The same writing style that I’ve come to marvel at was daunting; the first two paragraphs were like see-saws “It was the best of times (the see-saw goes up), it was the worst of times (the see-saw goes down), it was the age of wisdom (up again), it was the age of foolishness (and down again)…” I feel like I’m being very ambitious by trying to review Dickens, but I love this novel and I hope that other people will come to appreciate it. So without further ado…
“A Tale of Two Cities” is set around the beginning of the French Revolution and the story takes place in both London and Paris (ahem, two cities). The story is centred around a doctor who was wrongfully imprisoned in France for attempting to report the crimes of a nobleman, his daughter Lucie, Charles Darnay (who becomes her husband in the course of the story), their friends and colleagues (most notably Sydney Carton and Miss Pross), as well as Mr. and Mrs. Defarge. I won’t give a synopsis; bits and pieces of the plot will reveal themselves as I continue this review.
I am almost at a loss for words to describe how brilliant this novel is. I felt as though I got a taste of the Revolution from both the side of the ill-treated poor and the noblemen. The way that Dickens described the guillotine was truly terrifying; his description gave me the impression that it was a soulless monster with a bloodlust that could never be satisfied. What was probably more terrifying was the fascination the people had with watching La Guillotine in action; they gathered to watch the beheadings of men, women and young people and cheered as if it were entertainment.
My heart broke for the abused, neglected French people; the abuse they received in the story at the hands of the “noblemen” (it seemed there was little that was noble about them) was horrific, and the Revolution seemed to be like the bursting of a dam that contained all their suffering. Dickens contrasts two people who both suffered terribly at the hands of the same nobleman, but each character handled it differently. The doctor, despite his terrible suffering at the hands of the Marquis, was able to accept Charles despite his close relationship to the men who had him imprisoned, whereas Madame Defarge allowed herself to become consumed by hatred and the desire for revenge.
I think Madame Defarge deserves her own paragraph. La Guillotine was terrifying, but after all, it was an inanimate object and was only able to take lives because of the people who controlled it. Madame Defarge however, was even more terrifying. She sat in her shop knitting death with her needles (literally, she knitted a list of names and even descriptions of the people who would be reported and sent to La Guillotine). She was cold and seemed to care about one thing only : retribution. She did not care that the innocent was killed with the guilty, and for her, the son should be put to death for the sins of his father, although the only thing Charles could have been accused of, was being related to his cruel uncle and father. Her desire for retribution was insatiable; she was not content to have Charles killed; she wanted his wife and child dead too.The strength in her character served only to hurt others. She was a frightful portrait of what could happen to people who nurse hurt in their heart until the desire for revenge consumes them and numbs their conscience completely. . In the end, a fight ensued between Madame Defarge and Miss Pross (who loved Lucie, whom she called Ladybird). The fight seemed symbolic to me; it was like a battle between passionate hatred (and a strong desire to harm) and love (and a strong desire to protect). Spoiler alert: although love had to make a sacrifice, love won.
Actually, the power of love to win over hatred is a theme that I saw throughout the book. The doctor battled with the thought that the son of the very people who wronged him and other innocent people became his son-in-law. The sacrifice he made in accepting Charles out of love for his daughter was well-rewarded in the healing he found in his family’s love. But perhaps the greatest testament to the power of love was Sydney Carton; he made the ultimate sacrifice and won not just the lives of his dear ones (despite all the violence and scheming), but also redemption for himself.
Shespeaksandwrites 