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Trish Jensen on "Culture"

My idea of culture is watching Mel Gibson play Hamlet. I don't have a clue what's going on, but the visual impact of seeing Mel in tights is enough to turn even me into an avid lover of the arts.

My friend, Sharon, has been trying to drag me, kicking and screaming, into the world of culture. So far, thank goodness, she's failed miserably. She's tried to get me to go see plays (no thanks, my fanny always falls asleep), concerts (I don't understand the message), and foreign films (if Godzilla isn't the headliner, I'm not interested).

Her latest attempt was kind of sneaky. Knowing that I'm a voracious reader, she invited me to join the Reedsville literary club. This is a monthly meeting of the minds of several very savvy ladies, who come together to discuss a pre-selected literary work. I thought that idea sounded rather cool, but I begged off because I hadn't had time to read the selection of the month.

Sharon assured me that this didn't matter, that my perspective as a lover of books, and as an author, would make me a welcome addition. So I went.

Things started out real well. That's because they always start out by eating cake and gossiping. Then we all got comfortable and got down to business.

I sat in awe as these women discussed the rich texture of the plot and the layers of emotion that the author managed to build within each character. Someone handed me a copy of the book. I flipped through it randomly.

"So, is it a romance, or mystery, or what?" I asked, uncomfortable that Fabio the hunk was not on the cover. They looked at me kind of funny, I thought.

"Well, it's, you know, literature." That meant absolutely nothing to me. I tried again.

"What's it about?"

"A widow coming to terms with her rotten children and her waning years."

"Rotten children, huh?" I could certainly relate to that premise. After all, I was one at one point. "What do they do? Sleep with each other's husbands? Murder their business partners? Steal money from their mother?"

"No. They try to run her life."

"Oh. Who gets murdered?"

"No one. Although there is the underlying theme of the murder, and rebirth of one's spirit. It reminds one of the underlying theme found in Moby Dick."

"Moby Dick! You mean the whale book? Which English teacher forced you to read that one?"

"Why, none. I read it for pleasure." Most of the other ladies nodded in agreement. My reaction, I think, was quite normal. I fell on the floor laughing. When I noticed no one else joined in, I primly sat back up.

I looked around. "Okay, let me get this straight. No one gets shot, stabbed or poisoned in this book?" They all shook their heads no.

"There's no love, no romance, no..." my voice wavered, "...sex at all?" They all shook their heads no.

"Then why'd you bother?"

They all looked at each other. Finally, one brave soul made a last ditch attempt to save me. "To feel, to understand, this woman's agony."

"You want agony? Let me tell you about agony! In my latest novel, this guy makes an inappropriate advance on a female black belt, undercover spy. Now that guy, he learned the meaning of the word agony. (Author's tip: Whenever you want to describe agony, use "white hot shards of pain, hurtling through the nervous system." It's a handy little phrase that manages to capture the essence of various forms of agony.)

For some reason, I haven't been invited back to this little cultural group. They don't know what they're missing. At the next meeting, I was going to bring a copy of Kevin Costner in Robin Hood.

Last Updated on December 28, 2004

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