When I’m Happy, I Just Smile

Occasionally I have such a strong reaction to a novel I’m reading that I blurt something out loud. For example, I recently finished A Storm of Swords, the third book in George R.R. Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” series, and when I got through that infamous scene (if you’ve read it, you know what I’m talking about; if not, I’m not going to ruin it for you but rather command that you run out and buy this series right now and get to reading. Yes, now. I’ll still be here when you get back), I screeched, “George R.R. Martin, I hate you and the horse you rode in on! Hate! HatehatehateHATE! You are an evil blankity-blanking blank! Blank. BLANK!”

… or something along those lines. I don’t remember exactly.

About a year ago I was reading Shogun by James Clavell when I experienced a similar moment. My reaction wasn’t quite as passionate, but it was just as immediate and stunned: “Dear god, you can tell a man wrote this book.”

Sure, this goes both ways. You can toss some Jane Austen my way, and I probably will agree it sounds like a woman wrote that. But I’m not talking about the subject matter or plot. I mean, OK, maybe there are some gruesome beheadings and other acts of violence throughout this novel, but the particular sentence that struck me wasn’t from one of those scenes. In fact, it was from a simple discussion between two women. Gyoko, basically a madam, is discussing the price of one of her ladies with another character. Everything was fine until I read this sentence:

“My only concern is for Lord Toranaga,” Gyoko answered with practiced gravity, her anus twitching at the thought of two thousand five hundred koku so nearly in her strong room.

I don’t think I need to explain my reaction.

Try to tell me a man didn’t write that. Go on. See if you can do it with a straight face.

Also, tell me that phrasing didn’t make you wonder if “strong room” was a euphemism for something else.