Washington Square, The Book.

This post is dedicated to Alex Gomes and Elizabeth Trojanowski. Because when people cooler than you like your blog, you have to keep writing it.

So I turned 21 on Tuesday. Not exactly the best day of the week for a life-changing birthday, but you take what you get. Maybe I'll write about that next time. Today I will write about the books I'm reading. And also about my feelings. Because they're important.

I've spent my day with Catherine of Washington Square Park and I intend to spend my night with Catherine of Northanger Abbey. Of these two Catherines, Henry James' seems to have it the worst. The poor thing is stupid, silent, and unattractive. And I relate to her fully. Henry James captures perfectly the experience of being stuck around people who are not only smarter and better looking than you are but people who know (or seem to know) and fully acknowledge their superiority to you. And thus, Catherine, one of the most unappealing people ever to grace a novel, becomes a reflection of ourselves. Or... or just of me. I know a lot of times while at NYU, I look at the model-esque girls in my classes and wonder if they're not disgusted to see an inferior being contaminate their view. And I wonder if the men, who are so used to seeing such physical perfection in their female companions, are offended to see a clunky, chunky, brightly colored girl sitting timidly around. Whenever I'm alone on the NYU campus (which is about 15 hours a day, roughly) I'm constantly sure people see Catherine in my place - a clueless, homely, offensively stupid girl. I'm always sure they know exactly how many calories I've eaten today. For all the fat acceptance blogs I follow, and for all the acceptance I'm trying to give my... abnormal shape, it can be difficult. Being in New York helps and hurts, I suppose. Fewer people care what you look like or how you dress, and they're actually more likely than elsewhere to accept someone who looks different or outside the norm, but more people here look absolutely flawless. Especially students. Students who go to NYU, particularly.

Of course, it's not like I've never had any positive attention here. I guess I shouldn't even be complaining, actually, because I've received far more compliments than I ever expected here. By which I mean five people have been attracted to me at some point, as opposed to zero. (Not counting catcalls on the street - even 90-year-old women get sick of hearing those all the time.) However, my brain has played me a mean trick - all of the men (and women) who have found me attractive have not been attractive to me. It's an especially mean trick because all of these people are way better looking and much more kind and interesting than I'll ever be, but for some reason my romantic facilities seem stunted. I feel the need for a relationship and attraction and sex and all that, but when I finally find someone who's interested, I feel... nothing.

Me: "Come on, brain, let's get those positive chemicals flowing. We need to like this one - we'll never get anyone better. They're charming and attractive and for some reason they're interested in you. This is your chance to satisfy all those urges you've been having with someone who doesn't think of you as a blob with a hole."

Brain: "Meh."

Me: "Brain! For someone who got it into herself that she won't have sex without love, you sure are making it awful hard to love anyone. You've never met a nicer person than this. They're fantastic, intelligent, perfect! What do you say, brain?"

Brain: "Eh. I'm just not feeling it."

Me: "Goddam it brain we're never going to get laid."
  
I feel like we've gotten off track. What was I talking about today?

Oh, right. Catherine. I wonder what the kids at recitation will think if I say I empathize with Catherine. They'll probably think I'm simple and stupid and probably unattractive. Well, to hell with it. It's better than sitting there mutely, staring blankly at my warped reflection in the glass of TV equipment. That's what Catherine would have done, and her whole silent acquiescence to the world doesn't seem to be working out too well.

I meant to talk about the book. I meant to talk about how angry I am at Catherine's father. He's always deriding her inwardly, and treats his kindness to her as a disgusting and annoying duty, simply because she's quiet, ugly, and not very clever or interesting. What did he expect from her? A flower won't grow if you don't give it soil, water, or sunlight. He raises this child like veal, keeping her in a house all her life with little social interaction outside of her family - of course she'll be quiet and uninterested in the greater world! He left her completely under the influence of a women he knew to be dull and frivolous - did he think that somehow she would learn how to be clever all by herself? And the person who she loves most, her father, finds her repulsive - does he really think that doesn't influence her feeling about her appearance? For someone who constantly congratulates himself on superior intelligence, he certainly doesn't seem to think things through. For all his greatness as a doctor, I think all of her simplicity must come from his side of the family.

And I wish the narrator wouldn't be so hard on Catherine. It makes it awful hard to read, especially since I sympathize with her. However, that might be the point. Henry James may have thought to himself, "You know, I'd like to write a novel that reminds everyone of all the times they've felt shitty and ugly and stupid. It'll be fantastic. I'll be revered forever."

And he was.

The End.