Do Not Tamper With

Sarah’s Key by Tatiana de Rosnay

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

This review WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS and CAPSLOCK because I have so much to rant about.






The first 100 or so pages of this book are good. Not particularly well written but the story is intriguing and there is some genuine emotion. I was moved when Rachel was re-apprehended by the Nazis because she fought so hard and became so ill, all for nothing, that it was tragic. More tragic than the situation with Michel if you ask me. I liked Sarah’s chapters.

Where this book fell absolutely flat to me was Julia and her ‘plight’. But a few things I’d like to mention about the people around Julia first.

Bertrand. I didn’t understand why Julia claimed to love her husband and find him so charming but all she seemed to feel toward him was contempt and annoyance. And rightly so because he was an arrogant jerk!

Julia’s daughter Zoe was …not a child. At all. I’m so sick of the wise-beyond-her-years kids. Sarah had a reason to be mature, Zoe was just badly characterized and a tired trope.

Finally there’s Julia herself. I really, really didn’t like her. At first I just found her boring in a “Bleh, get back to the tragedy of human suffering!” way but as the story progressed and Sarah’s chapters were dropped I began to find Julia, her problems, and her goals insufferable.

So, ok, you’re pregnant after 2 or 3 miscarriages and your husband doesn’t want the kid. Yes, that’s a problem and I was mildly curious how it would turn out. But then you decide not to go through with an abortion because this baby is the most important thing in your life.
So you randomly fly from Paris to the USA.
Then USA to Italy.
In the matter of days.
And then you feel a little annoying ‘tug’ and think nothing of it.
WOMAN YOU HAVE HAD 3 MISCARRIAGES, YOU ARE IN YOUR MID 40′S AND ARE RANDOMLY GALLIVANTING ACROSS THE GLOBE GHOSTCHASEING BUT YOU CLAIM THIS BABY IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING YOU ARE A HORRIBLE, IRRESPONSIBLE, SELFISH PERSON AND A BAD MOTHER!

Seriously?!

Even all that aside, the amount of arrogant rich white woman hubris Julia has is revolting. Why should she dig up the past? What right had she? Obviously Sarah wanted to keep it behind her. Obviously she didn’t want to burden her family with it, nor the Tezac’s wish to remember the burden of it either.

And then of course there was all this eternal monologue about how Julia “would always remember the tragic day they rounded up those Jews” and “She knew what it was like” because she wrote an article about it. That is just as bad as “I know what it’s like to be in a wheelchair/blind/raped because I played one on TV”.

Finally, the writing. While the writing wasn’t strong, I never really seemed to notice a problem with it until near the end. The word “Ironic” 4 times in 4 pages? Really?
And it was “ironic” that you missed Paris after moving back to New York? No it wasn’t! Remember near the beginning of the book Julia, where you said you had always loved Paris, more than in the romantic cliche way, but in all the other ways? You had always felt a tug and longing from and for Paris! You met your husband there, you had friends there, you had your daughter there, you had a good career there. Of COURSE you would miss it! There is nothing ironic about that!

There was an awful lot of telling, not showing. One of the most blatant examples occurs after she almost has a miscarriage and is told to lie down and work from home. We’re told that. And the time just zooms by! We don’t get Julia’s frustration at being bed-ridden, at her lingering pain or guilt that she almost caused the loss of a third or fourth child, or anything like that. Nope! “I remained horizontal while my 11 year old made me breakfast in bed for X amount of days.”

Am I supposed to be getting some sort of parallel from all this? How humanity hasn’t change much since the Holocaust? That the problems of the upper-class are just as valid as the tragedy of thousands rounded up then carted off to death camps?

You know what? I was going to give this book 2 stars but no. One. One star for Sarah and Rachel and Michel. No stars for the rest of this book.

Now I’m off to watch the movie adaptation.



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I don’t blog a lot and I know no one is wondering why that is or want an explanation but I’m going to give one anyway because it’s an excuse to blog.

I don’t blog a lot because Dave Sim is a misogynist.

I don’t blog a lot because Bobby Crosby is a douche.

I don’t blog a lot because Anne Rice is insane.

I don’t blog a lot because Peter David hates spoilers.

I don’t blog a lot because Gene Simmons is full of lulz.

Knowing all these things I cannot bring myself to enjoy their work. When I try to pick up something they created, I sense only their contempt and their sense of entitlement. I can’t forget what they have done or said.

I don’t want that to happen to me.

I’m only starting out and I have this apprehension about saying or doing the wrong thing. I, the writer and you the reader don’t need to be friends, but there should be a sense of mutual respect between us. I know that I have views that some my find “problematic”. I laugh at rape jokes, I don’t hate Frank Miller, my sense of feminism doesn’t extend past the point of “I as a woman have a right to choose to stay at home and be a mother and wife and not some workaholic if that’s what I want to do with my life (Protip: It’s not. I hate kids.).”, I don’t feel the need to champion for social justice and as a disabled person I find the whole concept of “Ableism” freaking annoying and far too PC for it’s own good.

I only want to entertain people and get my stories, art and characters out into the world, nothing more. If and when I eventually put my prosthetic foot in my mouth, either by the misinterpretation of others, bad wording on my part or out of context quotes I hope that whatever I might say will not colour future readers to my work and they will be able to separate it from me. Just because I write or say something, does not mean I necessarily believe and endorse it or if I do, that I won’t change my mind sometime in the future. People change.

I have no agenda, I only try to live my life according to the following: Give to whatever cause you feel is important if and when you can and be decent to your fellow human beings. Also, everything will kill you, even the air, so relax and enjoy life while you’re here.

Don’t argue on the internet, point and laugh at those arguing.

I dislike people. I can like a person, but people en-masse just rub me the wrong way. My friend Doppleganger rationalized it to me as such:
“People are stupid, to varying levels. You’re stupid, I’m stupid, but some are just bread-is-an-animal stupid.” (I might be paraphrasing.)

And the Splurd Crew have adopted the rational that “All people are stupid until they prove themselves to be not-people.”

This isn’t to say I’m mean or snotty to strangers, I believe in respect. I respect you, you respect me. You disrespect me, then I have lost any reason to respect you, so kindly flake off. But, initially, I practice respect.

So today I was waiting for my friend Hazel at Metrotown Mall when this guy comes up to me. He wasn’t even subtle either, he was sort of idly sauntering in the obvious direction of Me-ness. He looked average, a tiny bit rotund, short, and maybe Philipino, not the stereotypical skinny, tall, bearded raver in the street. I kept an eye on him until he vanished from my line of sight because I am leery of people who saunter.

And then he popped out from behind me and said “excuse me.”
“Yes?” I said.
“Do you have-” And I expect him to say ‘a smoke?’ or ‘a light?’ or ‘the time?’ but no it was not to be, he finished with “Back pain?”
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“Do you have back pain?” he repeated. “I talk to people about their pain.”
“Uh…huh.” I answered, dubiously because I am small and sickly and weary of others by nature. “So you just go around asking people about their back pain?”
“Yeah, I lay my hands on the sick.” He held his palms out. “And heal with the power of Jesus.”
Then I started to laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you my laugh and you may be in pain but Jesus loves you.”
“Riiiight. Well, even if I was in pain, I’m not interested.”
“Are you sure? Jesus doesn’t want you to be in pain.”
I shook my head and smirk. “Pain makes you stronger, dude.”
He was about to mutter “Iiii dunno about that,” as I walked off.

If he pursued it, I would have asked if Jesus could make my leg grow back.

Look, I know I look like an easy mark. I’m a 5’0, asymmetrical, shoulder hunched, hobbling pip-squeak snippet of a girl with an overly defencive and abrasive attitude. I look 10 years younger than I am. My shirt had the god Anubis on it and my pants had a Chinese dragon. Do those sound like the garments of a follower of the lord? Really?

The ultimate irony? The holy crap you gotta be kidding me the timing couldn’t have been more perfect?
I had to get my artificial leg adjusted today.

Praise the lord for modern technology.

God, if there was ever a control test for the “PUT WARNINGS ON YOUR FANFIC!” debate, this is it.

Ok, so Amanda FUCKING Palmer is doing something Amanda FUCKING Stupid. (Full disclosure: I am not a fan of Amanda Palmer (nor Neil Gaiman). I’m apathetic to her existence. I supported the tummy pudge indecent though.)

Basically she and this other musician dressed up as conjoined twin musician girls who’s back-story is filled with abuse and poverty.

And it’s fake. No, Totally, see how EDGY Amanda Palmer is?!

Now, let me walk you through my reaction:

That’s SO WRONG!
WRONG WRONG WRONG!!
FUCKING STOP IT!!
….But…wait…
How is this any different from Alice Cooper and his crutch walking, straight-jacket-wearing, baby stabbing, woman beating self?
Hmm…
Or Lady Gaga? (Whom Palmer apparently hates so I derive a bit of glee from comparing the two of them)
Or Marylin Manson?
Or especially that Brothers of the Head movie?

How can I enjoy Coop and be offended by this? Wouldn’t that make me a hypocrite?

I think the difference is, for me, is that deep down, we all know Alice, Manson, Gaga, and Brothers of the Head are fictional. We know that it’s all pretend, but when the cameras are off, the fantasy goes to sleep and the artists go back to being regular people.

But Palmer, she has some sort of air of…well, people are calling it ablist bullshit, and it is, but it is also, undeniably art.

In the same way a Myspace camwhore on DeviantArt is art. This work which Palmer created is very War of the Worlds meets Jerry Springer. It’s shocking, it’s exploitative, and it’s ignorant.

But, there’s no one to exploit.

Unless you count the fact that Palmer was such a “Saint” to “Rescue” the “girls” and “Help them live out their dream!”
These quotes are getting tiresome.

That’s the thing, the whole thing smells of “My Pet Cripple”, but now with %100 less disability!

But that’s not all, my friends. No, the twins were ABUSED! SEXUALLY!

Amanda, do you know how prevalent sexual, physical and mental abuse is among disabled people? You should look it up. After you do that, maybe you won’t brush it aside as a footnote in a character’s back story.

The best part of all this? Amanda isn’t trying to say anything with this whole thing.
It’s not a political statement.
It’s not a petition for disability rights/problems/whatever.
It’s not about child abuse or prostitution.
It’s so Amanda can release music without having to owe her record label another album because apparently there’s some sort of SNAFU going on about that.

It. Is All. About. Her.

I’m glad I never liked you, Amanda Fucking Palmer