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But a very thorough book. I didn't sense that blood-stirring something extra that I expected. I, too, tried several times to get through this book. Even at the height of my fascination with Greece, during which anything with a reference to the marvelous country held my obsession, this book was like a huge, dry steak that I could not digest.
People who think this is a book about Greece are missing the point; it isn't. If nothing else, she sees the nation with very fresh eyes.Her writing is lovely, too, rich and slightly bitter-burnt like good chocolate. I'm amused at reviews that splutter "This isn't like Greece at all. It's about Patricia Storace, and her reaction to being plunked down in a Balkan nation after growing up somewhere very, very different. And to strain this metaphor even further, a little bit every night is better than trying to choke down the whole thing at once.Lay aside your pride, Philhellenes, and see this book for what it is -- a trip into the mind of a smart, observant and fascinating young woman. She doesn't get it." Because such a viewpoint presupposes there is, in fact, an objective 'Greece' that we can all agree on, and she simply failed to notice it. No, no, everybody's Greece (or Hawaii or Houston or anyplace else) is different, and it's very refreshing to find a book that sees things so differently from the Air Hellene party line.
To read her ridiculous "observations" regarding Greeks (All Greeks look alike, Greeks don't smile) is to know the real meaning of The Ugly American.Her year in Athens was clearly too brief a period for her to understand Greeks. Or visit Greece. Storace's book is a vivid illustration of how even a richly educated individual can be vastly ignorant. If you want to know Greeks, spend time with Greeks. Do not read this book. She completely misses the mark on the true benevolence behind much of Greek hospitality, and her pitiable retellings of the overtures of Greek men reveal nothing but her own egotism. Despite a solid understanding of Greek language and history, Storace has extremely limited understanding of Greeks themselves, in large part because her own ethnocentrism -- which reveals itself repeatedly in the book -- prevents her from regarding Greeks as equal to Americans.
Women are objects for men and infrequently taken seriously. Storace, a Greek speaking writer goes to Athens to work for a year. She does make lots of friends, but doesn't seem anxious to go back. The writer has ambiguous feelings about the Greeks. She visits various islands and tourst sites describing these in interesting detail. Storace also recounts her personal contacts with oversolicitous men who make it very clear that women are meant to get married and stay home.
Instead, this book tells me a lot more about the peculiar psychology of the author more than anything else. In the spirit of fairness I have attempted to read this book twice now and have put it down with a sick feeling in my gut. I've yet to find a better example of mental mastrubation in my Amazon purchases. I hate knowing I wasted my money of this drivel. It's the same feeling I get whenever I find myself in the company of someone extraordinarily pretentious and self-absorbed. I just wanted to read something intersesting about Greece.
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