Hello wonderful readers,
Again I am on time with my post. Two weeks running is now a record for me. Hopefully I can keep it up.
This week is also extra special as it is the first week you’ve actually seen me in my blog photo. Granted its not much of me, but those eyes are still mine and that still counts.
Unfortunately though, this week’s read made me a bit of a negative Nancy. Reading Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’s Diary was a long and somewhat difficult task which I didn’t enjoy. Now before I start my little rant, I want to say I haven’t seen the movie, I went in assuming I was going to read an hilarious and empowering feminist novel, and I did try my best to find the hidden gem in the 310 pages.
This book seemed to me to be one that gets one of two responses, people either fall in love with it, or they entirely dislike it. For me, it was most definitely the latter. There are not enough words allowed me in this post to describe the many ways I disliked this book.
There was mostly a difference in experiences and values, making Bridget Jones as a character nearly intolerable for me.
This week I did none of the following: calorie count and weigh myself every morning, pine over a failed date or my unbearable singledom or get together with my token gay male friend and sassy woman friend to drink wine and verbally bash the male species.
Brigdet did each of these on such a repetitive scale that they became stale, overdone and, in my opinion, presented the wrong lifestyle and image to the reader. This is not a book I would recommend to my sisters, friends or family members.
That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the book only because of differences I had with the character.
It wasn’t well written either.
The plot was dull and the character’s showed no change or emotionalsentences attempted to reflect the style of a diary but ended up clunkier than my first car, a dilapidated 1997 Ford Festiva.
Skipping ‘and’ and ‘they’ did not make me feel like I was reading a diary but rather broke the flow and kept me bungee jumping from one idea to another.
Overall it gave me the image of a very self-conscious, silly and disappointing woman, rather than the empowering feminist novel I was expecting. And I think that was my biggest disappointment with the book.
The book didn’t match the expectations and anticipations I had of it, and rather than inspiring or interesting me in different ways than I had expected, it merely presented a bland and repetitive story about a 30+year old woman who struggles to get a date, has a dead end career and repeatedly makes all the wrong choices.
Unfortunately, the book was not a success for me, and if asked, I would not recommend it to a reader, but rather would point them in the direction of the book’s obvious inspiration, Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
From the reader who implores you to read Austen instead,