Female Ruins by Geoff Nicholson

By Geoff Nicholson

Woman Ruins is a stunning hybrid of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead and Evelyn Waugh's The Decline and Fall.Geoff Nicholson's novel tells the tale of Christopher Howell, a cult architect who allegedly equipped only one development, and the quest for that fabled building—reputedly a wild, willful amalgam of types starting from eleventh century Norman to twentieth century Neutra. Ingeniously equipped into the narrative are bits of Howell's essays which have fun the assumption of the "Cardboard House" and the structure of impermanence. whilst Howell's daughter—and keeper of his flame—Kelly and a Howell groupie named Jack Dexter hook up in a free-falling love affair, the hunt for this apocryphal construction turns into a look for a misplaced previous. Brilliantly humorous and heavily obsessive, girl Ruins indicates how the castles we construct are usually symbols of our owns wishes, follies, and luxurious obsessions.

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See the huge flakes drifting against the windowpanes. It must be the doves, surely. They finally make up their minds to come down, the little dears; they are covering the waters and the roofs with a thick layer of feathers; they are fluttering at every window. What an invasion! Let's hope they are bringing good news. -and not only the elect. Possessions and hardships will be shared and you, for example, from today on you will sleep every night on the ground for me. The whole shooting match, eh?

Well, here's the stroke of genius. [138] I discovered that while waiting for the masters with their rods, we should, like Copernicus, reverse the reasoning to win out. Inasmuch as one couldn't condemn others without immediately judging oneself, one had to overwhelm oneself to have the right to judge others. Inasmuch as every judge some day ends up as a penitent, one had to travel the road in the opposite direction and practice the profession of penitent to be able to end up as a judge. You follow me?

But decidedly I am tired and no longer want to think of that period. Let's just say that I closed the circle the day I drank the water of a dying comrade. No, no, it wasn't Du Guesclin; he was already dead, I believe, for he stinted himself too much. Besides, had he been there, out of love for him I'd have resisted longer, for I loved him-yes, [127] I loved him, or so it seems to me. But I drank the water, that's certain, while convincing myself that the others needed me more than this fellow who was going to die anyway and that I had a duty to keep myself alive for them.

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