I remember a bookseller being super judgemental when I asked whether he stocked this title! It was honestly a pretty funny moment as I am very confident in my literary tastes and have a firm grasp on what I want to read and why.
As a moment, I felt that it was indicative of the boundaries and gatekeeping that sometimes come with reading literature.
Why is their such a stigma around books labelled as “romance”? Or the disparaging term “chick lit”?
Tip: Caroline O’Donoghue’s podcast Sentimental Garbage is a great place to go and revel in the pleasure of chick lit and things that can be dismissed as “sentimental”.
Despite what that random bookseller thinks, The Bridges of Madison County is a beautiful romance novel that I have read a few times. In fact, it is a romance cult classic with a blockbuster tie-in film: it’s a book that made Robert James Waller famous. (Incidentally, I would love to read some of his other work).
I remember a few key things about this novel from all those years ago when I last read it:
- The gorgeous heady nature writing, and those bridges! Who even knew so much beauty could be squeezed out of such simple structures?
- The scenes in the kitchen where Francesca ponders her life. (This was beautifully rendered by Meryl Streep in the film opposite Clint Eastwood: perfect casting).
- The tiger stuff, or was it panther? The sex scenes were very evocative.
- The ending in the car that absolutely breaks your heart.
I remember having a different experience the second time I read this, perhaps a more cynical reaction to the love scenes? My perspective had shifted, and I read the book with a different, more tragic feel.
However, in my memory, this book will always be warm and heady, full of youthful passion. Sometime books are perfect for the moment you read them in and that is their beauty.
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