Viime vuonna Nobel-palkittu kirjailija V.S. Naipaul kohahdutti kirjamaailmaa väitteellään nais- ja mieskirjalijoiden (ja samalla naisten ja miesten) eroista. Kahvit ja teet menivät väärään kurkkuun erityisesti sen vuoksi, että Naipaulin mukaan naiskirjailijat ovat naiseutensa vuoksi huonompia kirjoittamaan.
Naipaul sanoi, että luettuaan pari kappaletta tekstiä, hän pystyy kertomaan, onko kirjoittaja nainen tai mies. Väitteen riehuessa mediassa muistan tehneeni netissä samankaltaisen testin parin lauseen perusteella. Tulos oli 8/10 arvattu oikein.
Asia on jäänyt vaivaamaan mieltäni: onko kirjoitustavoissa muka niin perustavanlaatuisia eroja, vai onko koko homma puppua? Oliko nettitesti tehty tahallaan ‘helpoksi’ valitsemalla jotenkin sterotyyppisiä, Mars vs Venus –tyyppisiä kappaleita?
Kokeillaan riippumatonta testiä, jossa te, arvoisat lukijat, toivottavasti ehtisitte toimia koekaniineina. Alla on kymmenen palaa tekstiä. Kommenttikenttään voitte kirjoittaa mielipiteenne siitä, onko kyseessä nais- vai mieskirjailija, tai onko Naipaulin väitteessä järkeä ollenkaan. Aikaa on ensi keskiviikkoon. Katsotaan miten käy!
1. Our eyes met, and held. For some reason, she lingered, watching me expectantly. I couldn’t understand the expression, and I was still trying to read it when she stepped close to me and quickly kissed my lips. It was a friendly kiss, impulsive and generous and light-hearted, but I let myself believe that it was more. She walked out with Prabaker, and I spun around on one foot, whispering a shout of joy while I did an excited little dance.
2. He would have to approach his fate soon enough. He stood there telling himself, Look unafraid as if you have nothing to hide. Be clear and firm when answering questions and look straight into the eyes of the officer to show you are honest. But when you are on the verge of hysteria, so full of anxiety and pent-up violence, you could only appear honest and calm by being dishonest.
3. We pulled off Belgo Road onto our driveway and glided through the familiar strobe of leaf-crumbled light. The dogs stood up from the leather seats in the rear, whining in anticipation of being let out to do nothing. And here was the old lawn, green with new grass, a big circle of it enclosed by looping asphalt.
4. He often took her with him on his walks. He daydreamed as he strolled along, and she picked poppies at the edge of the cornfields; when she saw that he was more than usually depressed, she tried to comfort him with pleasantries.
5. The fear of what awaited him on his return and the generosity of those people kept him there until one Sunday morning, when he borrowed a newspaper some children had found in the bin of a refreshment stall on La Barcheloneta beach. It was hard to tell how long the newspaper had been lying among the rubbish, but it was dated three months after the night of his escape.
6. Months have passed since then, and the Reverend has spoken with every mother who lost children. Some are pregnant again. He reports to his family after a long day’s work: there women don’t wish to speak of the dead. They will not say their children’s names. He has tried to explain how babtism – the batiza – would have changed everything.
7. What scared me after the first two rounds was the complete absence of any sense of triumph in my twelve-year-old. It’s true that the final was far from over, and also true that Para was pitted against a tough opponent, but the normal-wanter in me kept looking for signs that this was just a game where small victories could be celebrated, and I found none.
8. Louise could hear the sounds of a siren somewhere west. It rose and fell same as yesterday’s but instead of ending up screaming across from her front porch, this one faded. More cars pulled up behind the mortician’s across the street and while Louise watched, people trundled in loaded down with cakes and huge jars of tea. She didn’t recognize a single person.
9. But you know, there was something rather sad about taking this dog all the way up there so many times and letting him run and watching him and hoping and praying that whatever happened he would always come last. Of course the praying wasn’t necessary and we never really had a moment’s worry because the old fellow simply couldn’t gallop and that’s all there was to it.
10. When I eventually stopped, utterly exhausted, I was almost alone and it was completely silent. I looked in through an open door. Deck-places. Of course, a large room full of low chairs, most of them already tipped backwards for the night. A large number of deck passengers lying asleep rolled in blankets.