All the Buzzz

I’m reading The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd, again. It’s absolutely as enchanting as the first time I read it several years ago.

I recently watched the film version which caused me to seriously scratch my head and wonder what was wrong with this picture? (No pun intended... okay, just a little.) However, so much seemed wrong with the film, that I wanted to renew my faith and read the book again. Perhaps the book wasn’t as great as I remembered? My vision of it was so different.

Having read a borrowed version of Bees way back when, I looked into acquiring a used addition from Amazon, then remembered Mr. Man has a client who’s a used-book seller that I thought would maybe give me/him little better deal (and make a buck for his client); after all, I just wanted to check my memory.

Mr. Man did one better and just went ahead and bought me the book. Yay! Thanks, Honey.

Well, just as I hoped and remembered, the extraordinary insight and imagery incorporated in Kidd’s wonderful writing doesn’t even come near the surface in the film. Granted, the movie does follow the story line fairly well, but it lacks so much of the meaning intended.

Nothing like a two-hour movie to ruin a good 300-page novel.

All in all, I sincerely recommend reading the book first… then don’t watch the movie (which I guess is probably “okay” if you don’t know any better).

Here's what I hate, when they plaster the pictures of the movie characters on the cover of the book. I prefer my own images, thank you.

So now, Marley & Me is available for my viewing pleasure, but I haven’t read the book by Josh Grogan, which is what I would really prefer rather than acquire the taint of movie-murdering before I read. I suppose in this case, it really doesn’t matter, I’m gonna sob at one point or another. Any movie, or book, involving animals (animated or otherwise) almost always jacks up Kleenex brand’s profits on my behalf.

I just finished, Dewey, the Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World, by Vicki Myron. Dang if I didn’t cry my eyes to puffiness at the end of the story. (And the middle when another beloved pet was put down.)

The cat lived 19 wondrous years!

The reader knows from the start what happens at the end, nothing tragic, but it doesn’t matter. I still wept, even though Mr. Man, who was napping beside me as I finished the memoir, would most likely note my eyes, suddenly with lack of make-up and horribly puffy, and I would look totally different when he woke up. Hey, love is blind, right?

Say, “right.”

Thank you.

Dewey is a charming, quick read. Probably not one I’ll want to read again (unless they botch the movie version). But if you like cats and libraries, and I suppose it helps if you’re from the Midwest, it’s worth the effort (and tears).

Still, Bees is much better. And, thankfully, I don’t recall crying at the death of any insects.

Oh wait… Charlotte, dear Charlotte!

Oh geeze, don’t get me started. That's a whole different story.

Much Love!