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10. Sodapop Curtis (The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton) 

Darry, you gotta stop yelling at him for every little thing he does, man.

Rob Lowe as Sodapop

My favourite Greaser. He’s funny, sweet, nice to Ponyboy, and likes horses. What’s not to love?

9. Count Almasy (The English Patient by Michael Ontdaaje)

All I ever wanted was a world without maps.

Ralph Fiennes as Almasy

That tormented, loner-ish count whose affair with a married woman destroyed them both, and resulted in her dead and him being burnt beyond recognition. Oh, and he comes across as a little bit of a masochist. Poor guy…

8. Blair Waldorf (Gossip Girl by Cecily von Ziegesar)

I want the best. I am the best. And I deserve the best.

Leighton Meester as Blair

Epic bitch! But how can you not love her? We all have a little bit of Blair in us. Yep, you know you do : )

7. Armand (Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice)

There are no children of Satan, really.

Probably the most evil character on this list, but it’s not his fault. He’s a bloodsucker, cut him some slack! If you were abducted when you were young and sold as a slave and constantly raped, you’d be evil too ; ) and probably not as good-looking!

6. Mathilde (A Very Long Engagement by Sebastien Japrisot)

If I don’t break the peel, Manech is alive.

Audrey Tautou as Mathilde

The  girl who refused to believe her fiance was dead, and even though she’s a cripple, ran (figuratively) around France looking for him. Did she find him? Take a guess : )

5. Fermin Romero de Torres (The Shadow of the Wind by Carl Ruis Zafon)

You talk like the jacket blurb of a Victorian novel, Daniel.

Gentleman and scoundrel with a shadowy past, who acts as a guide for the young Daniel. Probably the most charming and likable character ever in the history of literature.

4. Antonio Corelli (Captain Corelli’s Mandolin by Louis de Bernieres)

Your lips are like sugar
And your cheeks an apple
Your breasts are paradise
And your body a lily.

O, to kiss the sugar
To bite the apple
To reveal paradise
And open the lily.

Nicolas Cage as Corelli

The awkwardly adorable Italian captain with a mandolin who woos the initially hostile female lead from the occupied nation of Greece. Even though the ending’s supposed to be tragic, he’s so good-natured that even destiny turned on its head for him : )

3. Holden Caulfield (The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger)

Grand. There’s a word I really hate. It’s a phony. I could puke every time I hear it.

Everyone’s favourite teen rebel. So kooky and badass, how can I not include him?

2. Marguerite Gaultier (Camille by Alexandre Dumas fils)

How can one change one’s entire life and build a new one on one moment of love? And yet, that’s what you make me want to close my eyes and do.

Greta Garbo as Marguerite

The Parisian courtesan with a heart of gold who falls in love with a man for the first time in her life, and dies of a broken heart plus tuberculosis . Made iconic by the screen legends Greta Garbo in Camille and Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge. Love her very much.

1. Sydney Carton (A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens)

Think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!

Every time I re-read A Tale of Two Cities, I go to pieces, and the tissue box gets massacred, all thanks to Sydney Carton. He’s the intelligent but cynical lawyer who’s perpetually drunk and has no idea what to do with himself…until he meets Lucie Manette and completely falls for her. Unfortunately, she’s kind of taken, and he is forced into the background when she married Charles Darnay. When her husband is condemned by the French Revolution to the guillotine, Carton, who strongly resembles Darnay, gives up his life for the one he loves and takes Darnay’s place instead. Well, it was probably a good day for the Kleenex company when Mr. Dickens decided to create such a heartwrencher of  a character. Badass and the ultimate hero at the same time, and moving girls to tears since 1859. Top spot, without a doubt : )



How’s Superman doin’ today?

Not so well, thank you, m’dear.

Listen to me, two packs a day is all righty, but three is pushing it. Now gimme those.

He grins lopsidedly, a knight-errant glint surfacing from the depths of his caramel marble eyes . Four years and I’m alive and kicking. Miracle, isn’t it?

Her benign smile slides off her face like melted butter. You have no idea.

Oh, but I do.

She kicks at a discarded Starbucks cup. Grande; perhaps even Venti. It simply looked too big to hold any form of caffeine. Explains all the psychedelic eyes, she figures.

He fishes out his notebook, flips nonchalantly to the last page. December 9th, 3:18p.m., cigarette #53, Gauloises. Dee-lish.

I’m kinda cold. She whispers.

I suppose you expect me to act the Austenian gentleman and offer you my North Face with a gallantly sweeping bow, no?

You read my mind.

He tugs his left arm out of his sleeve gently, wraps it around her like a cocoon. She scoots closer, curls against his chest. Wisps of her hair snake up his navy blue sweater, aided by sinisterly playful particles of static electricity.

My gosh, I can feel your ribs through a thick honking sweater. How much do you weigh now?

Last time I checked, 124 pounds.

And when was that?

…Three weeks ago.

She winces.

He laughs lightly. Isn’t that the point?

A jogger huffs past them, throwing him an accusatory look. His eyes read: you are a disgrace to the male race. Get off your ass, scoot off to the gym and start pumping weights. Protein shakes would also do.

She snatches up his hand and jabs repeatedly at the numerous protruding veins, a la Wack-A-Mole. Did you hear Terence Glass in P.E. today? Said Holocaust survivors had more meat on them than you. Asked me how the hell was I hiding my bruises, and told me we gave “banging” a new definition.

Witty fellow, really.

He bends and stretches his fingers luxuriously. I’d love a copy of Chopin’s Nocturne in G Minor for Christmas. He winks.

That’s all?

Well, and a locked room with three day’s supply of food and fresh sheets, with just me and you inside, the keys tossed down the sewer.

How do we get out, then?

Break the window, break down the door. You can use me as the battering ram.

She coughs. I’d like a warranty, please.

He looks highly affronted. I’m made out of carbon and other unpronounceables, not porcelain.

She giggles into his chest, followed by a short round of rasping coughs. I don’t understand, tar seems to have no effect whatsoever on your respiratory system.

Dr. Evans is getting impatient. Another three months, I reckon, he’d cut off my cigarettes supply and starting IVing carcinogen into my arteries. Not that it’ll work, I presume. Even if I don’t look it, I’m a tough cookie.

She yawns, purring slightly like a naughty kitty. I’m getting sleepy…

No matter. My turn with the story anyways. I’ll drive you home. Where did we leave off?

The girl has fallen into the river. Her captors cannot swim. Then…

The fugitive is hiding behind the tree. He sees all, he can swim-

Of course he can, silly, otherwise how did he get the jewels from the island to the mainland?

Boats were invented then, Elodie darling.

He’s not Jack Sparrow. He’s just a poor young boy stealing for his family.

All right. So he can swim, he sees the fair maiden bobbing in the treacherous waters. The good side of him is saying: jump in, jump in and save her, let the cops shackle you up!

She untangles herself from his jacket and glares reproachfully. Cops? I thought this was the medieval times.

Sheriff and his men, law enforcers, whateveryoucallems. Happy?

Psh. Go on.

The good side of him is debating whether to save her or not, and the not-so-noble side is hissing into his ear: your family is starving. Get a move on, boy.

His finger splay, tap at the air, pounding the imaginary black and white keys. Come on now, your call. What will it be, fight or flight?


How ‘bout this? We have him sneak out from behind the tree, trot off home with his bag of jewels, buy medicine for his momma and five siblings, and they live happily ever after. Or we have him jump in doltishly and act the hero.

Act the hero then. But make it nice. Authentic and stuff.

Roger that. So our foolish country boy whips off his shirt, excuse me, tunic, dashes out from behind his hidey-hole, and plummets into the river, to the utter astonishment and bewilderment of the sheriff and company.

Hmm…does he have six-packs?

In his cheeks, yes.

You’re not nice. Go on.

The water rushes over his head. For a second, he was back in the ocean. But then his fingers close on locks of hair. He kicks hard, and finds her waist.

Why not her boobs?

That’s later in the story.

July 2018
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