I think younger me would have loved Steve Martin’s Shopgirl with its pithy, sharp characterization of interesting, racy relationships.
This option is hastily discarded because it is the afterglow she wants, and she begins her process of seduction wordlessly, naturally set into motion by the blush of her skin, and the willingness of her legs, and her readiness, which she knows a man can sense. If only Jeremy were a man.
Mostly, I would have relished the narrator’s coy, judgmental commentary, believing the laconic language carried deep truth. Seeing their relationships in their rawest flaws, I would have believed that not only could I be better, but that I was better. From the altitude offered by authoritative analysis, I would be shielded from alike. All of this reflecting how I engaged with others, not only the fictional ones. It still feels second nature. Although I still, regrettably, rely on attacks disguised as observation, I have slowly come to realize that the power offered by such evasive invectives is merely an illusion. Not only is it unproductive, but it is a personal projection of my own flaws. Unproductive does not mean ineffective, however.
What neither of them understands is that these conversations are meaningless. They are meaningless to the sayer and they are meaningless to the hearer. The sayer believes they are heard, and the hearer believe they are never said. Men, women, dogs, and cats, these words are never heard.
I think that I am no longer able to find Shopgirl as humorous because I am too deeply immobilized by my understanding of own flaws. As the characters in Shopgirl are dismantled and reduced to their flaws, I too feel as though my flaws were being surgically unraveled and pinned for display. Where I once might have pictured myself wiser than Mirabelle and Jeremy, I now wonder if I am simply too dense to realize that I am even less aware.
These gifts, though he doesn’t know it, are given so that she will be all right after he leaves her.
How many of my own unanalyzed tendencies ultimately betray my ignorance of the world’s norms? How often am I mistaken about my own intentions and desires? Under the discerning eye of the omniscient narrator, would I make a more or less pitiful character than the ones I pity? Would that make me a more or less interesting character to pity?
Mirabelle does most of the talking, and Jeremy listens intently without saying much. Later, Mirabelle will remember the dinner as the time she first found him to be very interesting.
Even if not knowing causes me pause, how much would it even help to have such a narrator?
Perhaps I will find a way to stop.