this one's for you, geri

So I wrote recently about how much I like genre fiction for its not taking itself too seriously. Which isn't too say I can't take literature seriously. Case in point, I'm reading Beloved right now, and it's pretty dang serious. But am I to take turtle sex seriously?

"A turtle inched along the edge, turned and climbed to dry ground. Not far behind it was another one, headed in the same direction. Four faced plates under a hovering motionless bowl. Behind her in the grass the other one moving quickly, quickly to mount her. The impregnable strength of him—earthing his feet near her shoulders. The embracing necks—her stretching up toward his bending down, the pat pat pat of their touching heads. No height was beyond her yearning neck, stretched like a finger toward his, risking everything outside the bowl just to touch his face. The gravity of their shields, clashing, countered and mocked the floating heads touching."

This I cannot take seriously. No more than I can imagine Toni Morrison writing this book and thinking, Now would be a good time for some steamy turtle sex. I don't care if it is metaphorical, it's funny.