Anyway, there was this really intense sexual scene between Tom Booker, the horse whisperer and Annie Graves (who's a top-notch editor by the way). And then all of a sudden there's this sentence: "She let go of him and lay back and lifted her hips for him to take off her panties. They were of a pale, functional gray cotton." What the hell? Who cares about her panties (I mean the exact texture and what not). Especially if it's a simple, functional gray affair. Functional, for God's sake? What is its function? And then I got all worked up on the issue and started to write a feuilleton about the relationship of literature and panties, but only in my mind. Then tonight I wrote it as a blog post here. From now on you will find my feuilletons (or etudes rather) in my Hungarian blog.
A linguistic issue also came up, namely that of the English word for coming compared to the Hungarian elmegy (going). I don't know the historical and etimological background here, but as I was thinking of this novel and how the sexual scene is described I started to prefer coming. Because where the hell is he going in the Hungarian version? Away. Of course it's not the him but the semen but still. Whereas in coming he is coming inside me, towards me. And in the context of the novel making love feels like coming home. And I've always had this notion of love that two people just meet by chance, make love, and feel like coming home, and that's when they know they belong together. Of course in reality sex and love doesn't always belong but if there's no coming home then why bother with it on the first place?
And this leads us to the moral issue raised in the novel, and the issue of plausibility (or shall I call it rationality?) There's no such thing as rationality in love, but in writing at least there should be some. You know, in this story the woman becomes attracted to the man as if drawn by a magnetic field or a spell or whatever you want to call it. And similarly, the guy says that if two people feel the same about it then let's do it, go with the feel. And neither of them feel any shame or guilt despite her being married. Now, let's leave the moral issue out of the picture. What I'm asking is: Is this really love or just, you know, chemistry (or phisics, more like)? When they talk about coyotes mating for life (which I first understood a bit differently, like, as a matter of life and death), and the pair of golden eagles, well, they imply that they belong together no matter what. And she also says that it's a pity they met too late (meaning after she got married). But how do they know? Show me a woman who would walk past Robert Redford in his full cowboy outfit, whispering into horses' ears, blowing up panties and what not. Come on, it's Robert Redford. No matter what you call him in the novel, it's the same damn thing. That's what all women want. Ride around the ranch, enjoy the landscape, make love, and don't give a damn about your job and the rest of the world. Who would want that lawyer husband with glasses? Who cares if he can speak Wolof and I don't know what weird languages? Of course I'm exaggerating it but put your hand on your heartor chest or whatever, and be honest. And it's not necessarily a crime. What makes it stupid is that it never lasts. After a while, you know, you'll have to feed the chicken, milk the goat, shovel manure, or just wash his clothes to start with.
And that's what the guy solved in a clever way, I mean the writer. The way he ended their relationship makes it last and turns it the happiest time of their lives. But Robert Redford (and I still don't mean the actor, only the character) won't marry you, gal. He's wild as the wind.
P.S. I haven't seen the film (directed by the great Redford himself) as yet, but planning to do so asap. By the way, why Kristin Scott Thomas, again? I admit she's English and talented and intelligent, bla-bla, but beautiful? Sexy?
P.P.S. You will find my book review in Hungarian here.
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