On Sunday, my boyfriend and I traveled to Binghamton to pick up my roommate from the airport. I asked him (nicely, of course) if we could go to the Barnes & Noble near Binghamton, and we did. I had Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Virgin Suicides in mind, but could not remember Jeffrey’s last name, so I asked an employee to direct me to my new treasure. After paying the cashier about fourteen dollars that I really did not have, I smiled and walked outside. The bag I was given was absolutely unnecessary, as I removed the book from it as soon as I exited the store. Sitting in the car on the ride back to campus, I intensely investigated the front and back covers and skimmed the reviews on the first couple of pages. Then, I read the first page.
That first page did one heck of a job of snatching my attention from all else in the world. I read: “On the morning th elast Lisbon daughter took her turn at suicide–it was Mary this time, and sleeping pills, like Therese–the two paramedics arrived at the house knowing exactly where the knife drawer was, and the gas oven, and the beam in the basement from which it was possible to tie a rope” (3), and felt desperate to find out what kind of journey I was awaiting. However, reading in the car makes me sick, and I had to stop. I set the book on my lap and eyed it every couple of minutes, wishing, waiting, and wondering. I already knew that I had chosen the perfect book.
FINALLY, I arrived on campus, hopped into bed, and felt as relieved as the last woman in a restroom line during intermission. I was shocked to find out that the first daughter’s first suicide attempt was unsuccessful, and consequently had a burning sense of bewilderment as to how she would actually pass away. I enjoyed myself as I read the following pages of exposition, then, WOAH! Just when the Lisbon-obsessed boys began to mingle in the basement they had been fantisizing about, it happened. I was honestly surprised. Eugenides’ craft really intrigued me, but I had other books to read. I set my gem on the table beside my bed and wished It was in my hands for the rest of the night.
That’s all for now… I hope I am on the right track!
Edit 2/27
The Virgin Suicides is told from the first person plural point of view, which is very interesting. I do not recall ever reading a novel written from this perspective, so realizing that there is not one main narrator is an interesting challenge for me. The narrator(s) are a group of boys who are, for some reason, obsessed with the Lisbon girls. They tell of their encounters with the girls, as well as their fantasies of interaction. Eugenides’ insights into the minds of adolescent males makes this story seem as though it was actually written by them. Granted, Eugenides used to be a boy, so he knows what it was like, but he conveys accurate (as far as I know) attitudes and thoughts. Now, the story does seem like a teenage boy wrote it, but each paragraph is composed of the perfect words, phrases, and sentences. The language used in this book is sophisticated beyond the ability of the average adolescent, but conversations about such things as tampons insists that the narrators are definitely teenagers.
Krystina