just finished readnig wicked and am feeling that crazy, warped feeling one seems to only get from a particularly grotesque and muddlingly complex read. also just read a comparative analysis of the musical and the novel and am racked with wonder. how does one’s mind contain SO many abstract thoughts and is still able to sift through them all, re-arrange them and make sense of it all?
wicked the musical remains in my memory a fun musical, full of light and laughter and of memorable feel-good themes such as friendship and romance. i had completely forgotten (though i had noted with approval at the time) how it was also about the media, revisionism and the nature of evil. the novel is much more complex. it has more characters, more grotesque scenes, more deaths, and far more unsettling elements which causes one to see the world (though, yes, it is the world of Oz, not ours) in a mixture of fearful cringes and wonder at the same time. gregory maguire’s elphaba (the main character, the wicked witch of the west) puts in mind a character that could have also been wrought by diana wynne jones. an angsty creature, a bit of a loner, a way with slapping people around with her sharp tongue (though not unkindly), someone with much gusto and morale, but ineffectual ambitions. in other words, a heroine who is not particularly good at being one. a crazy, urgent undercurrent of nostalgia is upon me. it is 2.30am and i am left savouring the strange characters of these fantasy writers like a finger of wine… never mind that tomorrow is a monday or that a quiz is at hand…
i’m left with a lot of half-formed thoughts on the story and the themes. i hardly dare draw on any of them, for fear the magical feeling of this warpedness will evaporate and flee.
when was the last time i felt like this? so carried away by words and a whole another world? maybe this is one of those krystles returned from the dead. the one who should have gone on and studied english literature after her glorious IB English Lit days under the venerable Venables.
i’m sending this because i think you might be the only one who understands that “warped” feeling. the kind that feels like nauseated wonder.