Archive for June, 2010
It has been some time since I’ve read a book and been compelled to formalize my thoughts on it in the form of a review. Renda Dodge‘s Inked arrived at my doorstep a few months ago and waited patiently in the reading queue stacked on my bedside table. Slowly, it rose to the top, unassuming and quiet. When its time finally came, I held few expectations or assumptions, save what was printed on the novel’s back cover:
Tori Liddell has struggled through her twenties suffering from undiagnosed Borderline Personality Disorder. She documents her radical lifestyle changes and shifting identity through the colorful tattoos covering her body. After years spent disconnecting from family and widening the rift created by her absence, Tori returns to small-town Oregon to help facilitate the care of her mother, recently diagnosed with AIDS. At her homecoming, she faces her own mortality, the inevitable loss of her mother and the interests of an enigmatic neighbor. Tori also confronts the realization that things and people are not always the way she remembers as she searches for the meaning of home in the rubble of her past.
Inked is a window into the life of a woman trying to overcome herself, her choices and a psychological affliction etched under her skin.
This, retrospectively, defined the book’s basic parameters well, but did little to truly prepare me for what I was about to endure: a mind-screw. I don’t mean this in the sense of some magical or shocking plot-twist but rather in terms of my own mental journey. Not since Brave New World have I come away from a novel so unsure of myself, so full of self-questioning. This is not a bad thing.
Dodge has done an amazing job of grafting her character’s narrative onto my brain in some form of reverse literary bio-feedback. I, on the surface, share very little in common with this tattooed protagonist, and yet I continually found myself in familiar spaces inside her head. These situations may be different from those I have experienced, but each mapped to the appropriate place, keeping me inside of the story.
Tori’s perception of past and present is chief among Inked‘s poignant life observations and the most widely-relatable aspect of the novel. Through this, Dodge expertly weaves a tale of mental distortion, of fuzzy edges and false assumptions. Just as Brave New World befuddled my sense of morality in regards to the function of society, Inked has brought into question my own believed control over the world that has passed by me and through the filters whose accuracy I have never before scrutinized.
Although dealing largely with personal realities and perception, this is not Fight Club. You will find no imaginary alter egos in Inked‘s pages, but rather another version of yourself, seen through a secret window in the back of a woman’s mind. You will find your own perceptions challenged through her eyes and through her trials, coming back changed by the process.
Dodge has crafted something truly incredible by her pen, and I’m going to have this story on my brain for some time to come. Needless to say, I highly recommend this book, and that you keep an eye toward its author’s future. I think we are going to see much, much more wonderful work from her.
How I long for October, for golden leaves and brisk nights, when we might dance on the precipice of death, with summer youth still coursing our veins. Never else will there be such a celebration! A month-long parade of boyish charms and ancient wisdom, culminating all in a single eve, when we fear not that dark reaper, for we become him, slip into his course, dry bones and swing the unholy scythe as if drunk on church wine. But nay! We’ve something more sacred than the courage of any blessed bottle electrifying our excited nerves: Life! Were we ever so wonderfully aware of it? It is our march through the dying season that will make us alive, free us from our fear. We will be as kites, carried on autumn wind, transported above the coming blanket of winter snow, to land softly in spring’s blooming garden, longing once more for October’s embrace.
You will not have our dreams. You will not control our lives. You shall be victorious over nothing and no one.
We are the great conjurers, the grand inventors of the future, and your petty lack of vision will not limit our infinite journeys.
There is something out there greater, larger, far bigger than anything you could ever imagine, and it is ours for the taking. We are the opened-eyed ones, and we see what you will forever fail to understand: There is no limit to our souls. We’ve no boxes within which to contain our lives, no boundaries to hold us back. We will go where you cannot follow.
Forward.
For there lies joy, knowledge, understanding.
And a happiness you will never have.
We are the nobodies, the statistically insignificant never-weres, small pebbles relegated to the seabed of the world’s great expanse. We’ve no mountains to our names, accomplished no great achievements to be gloriously trumpeted in the annals of history. The unwritten epitaph upon our sodded-over mass grave seems destined: Here lie the unknown ones. They made no difference. Let them never be remembered.
But we’ve no such fate.
We are the butterflies that silently roar, growling with a sound of thunder. We pound the pavement, lay foundations, move ever-forward with passion stoking our hearts’ driving fires. The boots of society seem fit to make us the downtrodden, but we are the grass that grows and carpets the hillsides, emerald green and made of the sun. Billions of blades.
Bricks in the wall, they cry, for they do not see. Bricks, no. Tiles in the mosaic, yes, for there is a picture to be painted as we align ourselves with no other force than shared love, the blind ambition to put forth into the universe that which begs to break free from the ribbed cage of mortality. What is mine is yours, and yours, mine. Ours. This is the glue that binds, active, alive, firm against the solvents they will surely throw.
Alone, we are nothing. Together, we are everything.
