Cruising Through: Vanity Fair

In order to write proper, I need some money and a room of my own.

In order to read proper, I realise I need the classic comfortable armchair.

I finally completed Vanity Fair, all 800++ glorious pages, in slightly less than seven hours, at one sitting, stopping only for lunch and dinner.

I accomplished this on a lazy and luxurious Saturday afternoon in the Library of Superstar Virgo, on a cruise to nowhere and I am so proud of myself. It has been at least 2 years since I committed myself to reading uninterrupted, savouring each word on the page and delighting at a witty turn of phrase. Frivolous magazines don’t count. Neither do trashy novels. Emails don’t, obviously, unless they are from the rare breed that takes joy in agonizing over the composition of the contents.

It was certainly tough at the beginning. I’m so used to scanning the page to get the gist instantly, if not quickly, that I constantly had to reread to make sure I was appreciating the beauty of the prose and getting justifiably annoyed at the numerous didactic intrusions by the omniscient narrator. But I was a reader, and once a reader, always a reader. In no time, I was reading with ease and fluidity. Look, I finished a classic in record time and of my own accord!! Now, I only need to keep this up.

And yes, you read correctly. I went on a weekend cruise. And I did spend a good some time in the library. It was all planned. Vanity Fair has been renewed 3 times, I think, without me glancing beyond the cover. It’s either now or never. So armed with a trusty classic, with time on my side, I set off to be a taitai in unknown waters, without internet access, and swopped worldly concerns for wordly cares, and was, as the proverbial saying goes, as happy as a lark.

There was the food, of course. And there was the casino. I have come to the conclusion I am only interested in one plaything in the casino. That’s the one where you slot coins in, and the coins would land amongst a pile of coins and hopefully generate enough push effect to push some of the coins into a bigger pile. Following which, suppose sufficient coins do drop into the bigger pile, money in the pile would be thrust out and you would hear the joyous tumbling of coins into the box where your hand awaits to stake your claim. I love playing this. It’s a strange combination of luck and skill that would guarantee your winnings. My greatest triumph was getting a fifty dollar note and some more out after “investing” in less than half that amount. It all started during a Sec 1 DHS outing to the arcade at Marina Bay. Tired of Daytona, and disliking all shooting and fighting games, I became fascinated by this money machine in a corner. Yes, I won that day. Enough to play at least 5 bowling games, and I have been quite charmed since. It’s therapeutic, and it tests your mettle, I swear.

So in the middle of nowhere, on waters, I thus spent my weekend lovingly with a book and food, and uncluttered, simple thoughts (like ooh, western or Chinese food today?).

But I’m back now. Reality is slowly seeping in.

I must remember to read.

Vanity Fair reminds me of a more boring Jane Eyre at times:

Do you suppose I have no feeling of self-respect, because I’m poor and friendless, and because rich people have none? Do you think, because I am a governess, I have not as much snse, and feeling, and good breeding as you gentle folks in Hampshire?

I wonder if the style of this passage is inspired by Jane Eyre, that Thackeray is *gasp* mocking his female protagonist. Ha, of course he is! Like duh lor.

He is prudently naggy:

Be cautious then, young ladies, be wary of how you engage. By shy of loving frankly; never tell all you feel, or (a better way still), feel very little. See the consequences of being prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrust yourselves and everybody. Get yourselves married as they do in France, where the lawyers are the bridemaids and confidantes. At any rate, never have any feelings which may make you uncomfortable, or make any promises which you cannot at any required moment cammand and withdraw. That is the way to get on, and be respected, and have a virtuous character in Vanity Fair.

And he can be very droll (yet honest) in the most exaggerated manner:

Some cynical Frenchman has said that there are two parties to a love transaction: the one who loves, and the other who condescends to be so treated. Perhaps the love is occasionally on the man’s side; perhaps on the lady’s. Perhaps some infatuated swain has ere this mistaken insensibility for modesty, dullness for maiden reserve, mere vacuity for sweet bashfulness, and a goose, in a word, for a swan. Perhap some beloved female subscriber has arrayed an ass in the splendour and glory of her imagination; admired his dullness as manly simplicity; worshipped his selfishness as manly superiority; treated his stupidity as majestic gravity, and used him as the brilliant fairy Titania did a certain weaver at Athens.

But his so called sweeping epic is boring at times, and his presence permeates the whole plot (he’s so determined to be controlling and commanding) such that he can be very, very tiresome.

I’m hardly moved. Just awfully glad that I polished off the book. Now, what’s the next novel to keep me grounded ie usefully occupied?