Wednesday, 19 August 2009

All the books I haven't read...

okay this blog post is about all the books I have not read this month. are you ready? the list is horrifically long. _The Inheritance of Loss_, by Kiran Desai, comes top; I have had this book recommended to me over two years, in my possession for one year, next to my bed for SIX MONTHS, and still can't get myself to read it. There's something about the turquoise cover and cursive script on the front that makes me think it's not going to make me laugh, and I have been wanting a good laugh recently.
I have also failed to read _Infinite Jest_ (David Foster Wallace; I really really liked the idea of 'Infinite Summer' when I heard about it, but was thwarted by the number of people who also apparently really really liked the idea and who bought out the local bookshop/borrowed all the copies from the Santa Rosa library. Why am I bothering to resist Amazon? I don't know. I don't want to spend full price for a book that will lurk under my bed for six months. I'd rather wait until the next copy comes back to the library (in 2014, judging from the wait list for it) or until I've forgotten that I wanted to read it, whichever comes first.
Next comes _Map of the Harbor Islands_, which I think (based on the first two pages and dust jacket) is going to be sort of a gay coming-of-age tale; another one which was recommended to me eons ago. It was recommended so earnestly as The Best Book Ever Written that I did actually look on Amazon for it, but couldn't find a copy for less than thirty dollars, which I will not pay unless the earnest recommender is someone whose taste lines up with mine on every. single. point., from the Just So stories to the New Yorker to, oh, god, I don't know, something that only I like that no-one else likes, like eating lemons, or foot-washing right before bed. Now I have a borrowed copy. We'll see if the magic happens.
Also borrowed is the latest Jhumpa Lahiri novel. I'm nervous about this one: I loved loved loved loved loved loved loved the Interpreter of Maladies SO MUCH I just wanted to marry it oh my god what a perfect little book that was. And then she wrote the Namesake and I was so excited because it was like, wow, a whole juicy novel, what a treat this is going to be, and then it kind of wasn't - a little bit of the Martin Amis problem again, that none of the characters (at least in the younger generation) were actually that sympathetic, and the older generation felt almost caricaturey in their "why don't you get married to a nice Indian girl otherwise you will bring shame on the family"ness. So I'm skittish about the new book. It's on the trunk in my bedroom. It hasn't made it to the floor next to the bed stack. I avoid making direct eye contact with it. I think maybe if I just live with it for a little while I might get less afraid of it, and one day I'll pick it almost accidentally, like "oh, wait, what's this again?" and sort of flip through the pages in a casual sort of way, as if I'm not actually reading it, I just wanted to check out the type face, because I'm suddenly feeling really interested in font design, and then something catches my eye, and then ha! I'm in. It might work.
I saw Julie and Julia the other night (movie, Meryl Streep) which made me want to read Julia Child's _Mastering the Art of French Cooking_, since it sounds like it might be a) good for me in an improving educational sort of way and b) quite a chatty fun cookbook, sort of Jane Grigsonish, but I can't think about food right now, because I just went out for a medium-epic dinner with friends and am bulging at the seams. Tomorrow will contemplate.
I am embarrassed to admit what I am reading instead: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I can't help it. I need something cheerful, undemanding, familiar at night to fall asleep. It's not a book, it's a sedative, a transition prop to get my brain to shut up about all the things knocking around in it leftover from the day (I need to clean the kitchen, I need to fill out my licensing paperwork, I need to finish painting, I need to send off my tax thing, I need to exercise, I need to ring xyz specialist about xyz patient) so that I can go to sleep. I read three pages and I'm out cold, happy sound sleep, with no side effects, unless you count happy, vaguely erotic dreams about Daniel Radcliffe and what a little hottie he is turning into. I used to use the Stalky & Co. stories for my bedtime sedative, until I found out that Kipling based the character of Beetle on himself, and somehow I found that obnoxious and couldn't read them anymore.
I will start reading more, I promise, since I have discovered that the universe is punishing me for not reading the last couple of months: I found out that Nick Hornby himself, unknowing spirit guide of this blog, is going to be in San Francisco, reading at City Arts and Lectures at a benefit thingy for 823 Valencia, at the beginning of October, and it is SOLD OUT. Full on tragic, man. Next time. Nick, if only you knew us, I know you'd like us, really.