It has been a long time since I wrote about a book. Quite appropriately so, this is about my true love: older women.
The film (Adore) led me to the collection of short stories written by Doris Lessing, and the image of Robin Wright as Roz kept me glued in.
At least for the first part of the story. “The Grandmothers” unfolds with an overly-drawn description of the coast, the place, and a non-confrontation that transpired among the characters. Considering how much I detest overindulgence in descriptors, it is a miracle that I plowed through (as they did) the story.
Admittedly, it unfolded quite satisfactorily to my taste — because really, how can this kind of twisted Oedipal complex, peppered with same-sex nuances (or really, non-nuances) be explored effectively? The answer? With a certain level of tact, British politeness, and savory suggestions of what the readers can sketch in their imaginations.
Because really. Sexy is the secret we hide in our subconscious. Everlasting erotica is never about what a writer tells us happened: it’s what they don’t tell us — and in here, Lessing gave us emotions, and occasional peep show: and it was delicious.
As sumptuous as my fine wine/women, aging so gracefully. And quite intoxicatingly so. Verdict: let's skip language. Just flow with the tide. And if it drags you deep into unchartered territories: continue to flow.
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