This is one of the very few books that captivated me from the first page. I remember in JC, probably during the first 3 months, our prose literature teacher gave us a sheet of paper with the first paragraphs of a novel and said if we weren't drawn by it then we probably shouldn't take literature because that was the book we were going to study. I thought it was boring. But I still took literature and got A for it at 'A' levels. Aha! What good is getting an A if I can't brag about it? Haha.. That lit teacher is my favourite angmoh teacher. I was also going to say my first but then I remembered that one we had in Sec 3. She was crap. Lit lessons were more enjoyable than other lessons because we usually get the aircon rooms. I think it's because the angmoh teacher melts in hot weather. Even when we're half frozen he'll still say it's too warm. ??! Why most of us never thought to bring jackets, I don't know. Seriously, why I didn't think of that? But I like that we always get the nice rooms with aircon because of whatever reason. Heh. And he sometimes makes his lessons more interesting too. One lesson he told me to go out of the class, wait for a while then come in later. Don't know why he picked me. I wasn't even sitting in front of him. After that he popped his head out and told me to go back and then made me describe the scene in the classroom, which was the rest of the class laughing and me very confused? And apprehensive of saying something stupid. Ha.. Anyway there was somebody hiding behind the TV cupboard and I forgot what the exercise was for. =P Something about the narrative not knowing what the other characters knew.
Anyway, this book is really intriging. Kinda reminds me of The Pillowman, in that there's a lot of storytelling. Pillowman has many stories in it but this only has one. But this one has many twists and turns. Actually it's a rather sad story. But I want to read it again to see how the "truth" revealed at the end fits in with the story. I think part of the ending is a little odd though..but I've never really liked endings. The only ending that I remember liking is Sue Townsend's Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years. That's because Adrian's life was so pathetic (and erm, so was he..) thus the believably happy ending was very much a relief. I can't not read to the end once I start reading it because I get so depressed and the ending is the only cure to that depression.
The other thing that I like about this book is that there are many mentions of classics so it makes me want to read those books. Jane Eyre was mentioned a lot so I definitely want to read that.
Dr. Clifton came. He listened to my heart and asked me lots of questions. "Insomnia? Irregular sleep? Nightmares?"
I nodded three times.
"I thought so."
He took a thermometer and instructed me to place it under my tongue, then rose and strode to the window. With his back to me, he asked, "And what do you read?"
With the thermometer in my mouth I could not reply.
"Wuthering Heights - you've read that?"
"Mm-hmm."
"And Jane Eyre?"
"Mm."
"Sense and Sensibility?"
"Hm-m."
He turned and looked gravely at me. "And I suppose you've read these books more than once?"
I nodded and he frowned.
"Read and reread? Many times?"
Once more I nodded, and his frown deepened.
"Since childhood?"
I was baffled by his questions, but compelled by the gravity of his gaze, nodded once again.
Beneath his dark brow his eyes narrowed to slits. I could quite see how he might frighten his patients into getting well, just to be rid of him.
And then he leaned close to me to read the thermometer.
Perple look different from close up. A dark brow is still a dark brow, but you can see the individual hairs in it, how nearly they are aligned. The last few brow hairs, very fine, almost invisible, strayed off in the direction of his temple, pointed to the snail-coil of his ear. In the grain of his skin were closely arranged pinpricks of beard. There it was again: that almost imperceptible flaring of the nostrils, that twitch at the edge of the mouth. I had always taken it for severity, a clue that he thought little of me; but now, seeing it from so few inches away, it occurred to me that it might not be disapproval after all. Is it possible, I thought, that Dr. Clifton was secretly laughing at me?
He removed the thermometer from my mouth, folded his arms and delivered his diagnosis. "You are suffering from an ailment that afflicts ladies of romantic imagination. Symptoms include fainting, weariness, loss of appetite, low spirits. While on one level the crisis can be ascribed to wandering about in freezing rain without the benefit of adequate waterproofing, the deeper cause is more likely to be found in some emotional trauma. However, unlike the heroines of your favourite novels, your constitution has not been weakened by the privations of life in earlier, harsher centuries. No tuberculosis, no childhood polio, no unhygienic living conditions. You'll survive."
He looked me straight in the eyes, and I was unable to slide my gaze away when he said, "You don't eat enough."
"I have no appetite."
"L'appétit vient en mangeant."
"Appetite comes by eating," I translated.
"Exactly. Your appetite will come back. But you must meet it halfway. You must want it to come."
It was my turn to frown.
"Treatment is not complicated: eat, rest and take this..." - he made quick notes on a pad, tore out a page and placed it on my bedside table - "and the weakness and fatigue will be gone in a few days." Reaching for his case, he stowed his pen and paper. Then, rising to leave, he hesitated. "I'd like to ask you about these dreams of yours, but I suspect you wouldn't like to tell me..."
Stonily I regarded him. "I wouldn't."
His face fell. "Thought not."
From the door he saluted me and was gone.
I reached for the prescription. In a vigorous scrawl, he had inked: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes. Take ten pages, twice a day, till end of course.
