JEFFREY EUGENIDES BASTER PDF

Perhaps this will usher in a new period of volubility. Or not. Eugenides found a critical and popular audience early. At this stage one cannot pick up a new book from him without considering W.

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It involved love and a wedding. So now they were giving Plan B a look. Plan B was more devious and inspired, less romantic, more solitary, sadder, but braver, too. His idea of honor had been to split the cost of the abortion. There was no sense denying it: the finest soldiers had quit the field, joining the peace of marriage.

What was left was a ragtag gang of adulterers and losers, hit-and-run types, village-burners. Tomasina had to give up the idea of meeting someone she could spend her life with. Instead, she had to give birth to someone who would spend life with her. She knew it when she found herself thinking, Stu Wadsworth I could maybe see. But Wally Mars? Tomasina—I repeat, like a ticking clock—was forty.

She had pretty much everything she wanted in life. She had good looks, mostly intact. And she had new teeth.

She had a set of gleaming new bonded teeth. She had biceps. She had an I. Not having a husband she could take. Not having a husband was, in some respects, preferable. But she wanted a baby. Just when she got her head on straight, her body started falling apart.

Nature wanted her to marry her college boyfriend. In fact, from a purely reproductive standpoint, nature would have preferred that she marry her high-school boyfriend.

She saw it all now. While she canvassed for ripirg in college, her uterine walls had been thinning. While she got her journalism degree, her ovaries had cut estrogen production. And while she slept with as many men as she wanted, her fallopian tubes had begun to narrow, to clog. During her twenties. That extended period of American childhood. The time when, educated and employed, she could finally have some fun.

Tomasina once had five orgasms with a cabdriver named Ignacio Veranes while parked on Gansevoort Street. He had a bent, European-style penis and smelled like flan. Tomasina was twenty-five at the time. So as not to have regrets. But in eliminating some regrets you create others.

With each year, the proportion of miscarriages and birth defects rises. Tomasina was forty years one month and fourteen days old. And panicked, and sometimes not panicked. Sometimes perfectly calm and accepting about the whole thing.

She thought about them, the little children she never had. They were lined at the windows of a ghostly school bus, faces pressed against the glass, huge-eyed, moist-lashed. We understand. We do. He raised one bony hand to the gearshift, turning to Tomasina as his face split open in a smile. Maybe they stayed alive in the toilet bowl for a few seconds, like goldfish. When she awoke at night, she saw it slowly pulling away from the curb, and she heard the noise of the children packed in their seats, that cry of children indistinguishable between laughter and scream.

Everyone knows that men objectify women. But none of our sizing up of breasts and legs can compare with the cold-blooded calculation of a woman in the market for semen. At parties, over glasses of Barolo soon to be giving it up, she drank like a fish , Tomasina examined the specimens who came out of the kitchen, or loitered in the hallways, or held forth from the armchairs. Some semen auras glowed with charity; others were torn with enticing holes of savagery; still others flickered and dimmed with substandard voltage.

The men had obliged, asking no questions. Men always oblige. Men like being objectified. They thought that their tongues were being inspected for nimbleness, toward the prospect of oral abilities. And the tongues unfurled for display. Some had yellow spots or irritated taste buds, others were blue as spoiled beef. Some performed lewd acrobatics, flicking up and down or curling upward to reveal spikes depending from their undersides like the antennae of deep-sea fish.

And then there were two or three that looked perfect, opalescent as oysters and enticingly plump. The wives and mothers who were nursing other complaints by now, of insufficient sleep and stalled careers—complaints that to Tomasina were desperate wishes.

Advertisement At this point, I should introduce myself. We went out for three months and seven days in the spring of They said what she did when she saw my name on the ingredient list.

Tomasina loved me, though. She was crazy about me for a while. Some dark hook in our brains, which no one could see, linked us up. She still did. Every few weeks she called to invite me to lunch. And I always went. At the time all this happened, we made a date for a Friday. When I got to the restaurant, Tomasina was already there. I stood behind the hostess station for a moment, looking at her from a distance and getting ready. She was lounging back in her chair, sucking the life out of the first of the three cigarettes she allowed herself at lunch.

Above her head, on a ledge, an enormous flower arrangement exploded into bloom. Have you noticed? Flowers have gone multicultural, too. Not a single rose, tulip, or daffodil lifted its head from the vase. Instead, jungle flora erupted: Amazonian orchids, Sumatran flytraps. Her hair was thrown back over her bare shoulders. It was flesh-colored and skintight. What she has to display was on display.

It was on display every morning for Dan Rather, who had a variety of nicknames for Tomasina, all relating to Tabasco sauce.

Somehow, though, Tomasina got away with her chorus-girl outfits She toned them down with her maternal attributes: her homemade lasagna, her hugs and kisses, her cold remedies. At the table, I received both a hug and kiss. Her face was all lit up.

Her left ear, inches from my cheek, was a flaming pink. I could feel its heat. She pulled away and we looked at each other. Tomasina took a drag on her cigarette, then funnelled her lips to the side, expelling smoke. I can do this.

Every time she opened her mouth it was like a flashbulb going off. They looked good, though, her new teeth. And Diane. You can babysit, too, Wally, if you want. I squeezed back. Her cheeks hollowed out. Tomasina was still gazing up at her spreading smoke. Then she looked at the waiter. She kept looking. She ran her hand through her hair, flipping it back.

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“Baster” and The Switch

It involved love and a wedding. So now they were giving Plan B a look. Plan B was more devious and inspired, less romantic, more solitary, sadder, but braver, too. His idea of honor had been to split the cost of the abortion. There was no sense denying it: the finest soldiers had quit the field, joining the peace of marriage.

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Jeffrey Eugenides’s Short Stories Salvage Wit From Life’s Grind

The movie was remarkably faithful— perhaps too faithful —to the book, preserving the languid mood, reverential but impersonal treatment of the doomed Lisbon girls, and unusual, first person plural narrative voice. Last Friday a very different Eugenides adaptation, The Switch, hit the big screen. Francis Ford Coppola founded the magazine with the idea that short stories are more akin to film and perhaps better source material than are novels, as both stories and movies are meant to be consumed in one sitting. The movie is less broadly comedic than their resume would indicate. They were lined at the windows of a ghostly school bus, faces pressed against the glass, huge-eyed, moist-lashed. We understand.

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