La Sombra del Viento, Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Vanity Fair article about Marriage Scientology Style: What Katie Holmes Didn't Know
My 403b plan fine print
Last two issues of London Review of Books
I, Richard, Elizabeth George
OK, there is some fairly desperate padding of the list, I will admit, there, but if one is going to be a blogger, one must be prepared to bare the gory details of one's innermost reading list to the harsh critical light of day.
The middle two (Vanity Fair article, 403b plan details) were both monstrously depressing, to the point that we don't really need to go into them; suffice to say that both made me feel completely inadequate, financially speaking. Tom Cruise has, turns out, just scads of cash.
However! La Sombra del Viento.... omg so much fun. I have a feeling that had I read it in English, I would have made myself slightly ill reading it way too quickly all in one sitting, whereas in Spanish, I am a bit like a whale swimming through molasses and I have to surface periodically for metaphorical air (air in this case being English, with the help of the internet. I remember when I had an actual collection of actual Spanish/English dictionaries - as in reference books, that sweetly quaint and inefficiently space-consuming habit we used to have, before the inefficiently time-consuming internets arrived.) Sludgy and slow though reading in Spanish, was, however,
(a) it was more confidence inducing than my 403b financial statements: there was initial depression at how many words I didn't even recognize per page, and then as I started looking them up, I got quite perky at how incredibly obscure they were ("slag-heap," "a lime blossom infusion," or, best of all, "spanishdict.com did not recognize your word; please try again" HA! not even in the DICTIONARY! boo-YAH!)
(b) it prolonged the pleasure of the juicy plotty gothic deliciousness of the book, of which I will not give away any details except to say waaaaaahahhh! the epilogue!!!!!! did ____ die, or ??? and if so, how?? and wtf?!?! Not unlike _The Master of Bruges_ which I also devoured whole a while ago, which had me all hot to look up pics of the all the various paintings it mentions, this book had me constantly running to Google maps to look at Barcelona streetview - extra points for that - and
(c) it reminded me that it is always, always, always worth reading things in the language they were written it if at all possible. A translation distances you, there is no question about it. I heard a very nice interview with Javier Bardem on I think Fresh Air last year in which he was describing the sensation, when acting in English, of having an office full of very busy people in his head, bustling around and working frantically to do the simultaneous interpretation from Spanish, and when he went back to speaking in Spanish, all the office workers could go home for the weekend and lock up. The thing is, all the office workers have their own agenda. I think I used to think that anything I read in translation was definitive, perfect; it never occurred to me that not only could there be multiple imperfect (and imperfectible) versions, but that there IS no perfect translation, no perfect 1:1 pre-ordained word correspondences, and there are, especially in fiction, cultural references that either have to be annoyingly explained, breaking up the narrative, or left out.
On that earth-shaking profundity, I will call it quits for the night and fall into the arms of Morpheus, in the hopes that baby will also stay tightly in said arms until at least 6 am. Dedos cruzados...
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
Saturday, 3 November 2012
EAT YOUR VEGETABLES. I MEAN IT.
Books read:
Peter Carey, His Illegal Self
Marion Nestle, Food Politics (about two thirds of the way through, but I've got the gist)
Roger Hargreaves, Mr. Men series
Martin Amis, Lionel Asbo, State of England
Tim Kasser, The High Price of Materialism
Carlois Ruiz Zafran, La Sombra del Viento (first few pages of)
Hello, great reading public of about five people! How are you? I am feeling particularly smug because I have a sleeping child AND did not myself become exhausted in the process of achieving said asleep child. In fact, here I am propped in my bed with my laptop preparing to send my blather out into the blogosphere and still have time to read a few more pages of Food Politics before I conk out.
First off, Peter Carey - this book came to me via a fairly dubious route. Newish friend (who is very nice, but who is sufficiently new that I don't have a good sense of his book taste yet) picked it up off the street in San Francisco (as in, it had been actively discarded/rejected by someone else) and took it home and never read it. He then had a party in which he gave/loaned away all his books (because he was moving) - rejection number two for this book - and it was taken home by my sister, who decided she didn't want to read it herself - rejection number three - so she passed it on to me. hmmmm...... but I did read it, and it was sweet, if a little farfetched. It's about a boy who was the child of crazy bomb-setting sixties radical parents who is inadvertently kidnapped by a woman who used to work with said radical parents, and they wind up in a hippie commune in the Australian outback where initially all the inhabitants are stoned/sinister/passive-aggressive (or some combination of the above) but magically at the end turn out to be radiantly helpful and good, which, I dunno, just seemed a bit improbable. For half the book, the boy doesn't know properly where he came from and what happened to him, and for most of the book I will confess I was equally if not more confused - there are a few crucial plot points that are only alluded to fairly cryptically - but the prose is nice in bits, and I'm glad I read it. (I was a bit surprised that it got a Man Booker prize nomination, but that probably just means that one of the judges for the Man Booker prize used to live on a hippie commune in the Australian outback and was feeling nostalgic.)
The Martin Amis book also found its way to me with no effort on my part - it was a gift from babydaddy which he had heard reviewed on NPR and thought I would like, (presumably because it has the word 'England' in the title...?) I am a little skittish about Mr. Amis, because he is reliably such a downer (see previous entries) but this one again was an enjoyable read while at the same time feeling just a little improbably optimistic. What are the chances that a young man who lives in a poverty & crime-ridden neighbourhood, whose teenage mother died when he was 12 and who was raised by a completely, but COMPLETELY delinquent and derangedly narcissistic violent uncle, would somehow be consistently sweet, educated, polite, mostly law-abiding, faithful, honest and reliable. (And the one illegal thing he does do - have sex with his grandmother at the beginning of the book, feels totally, um, unrealistic). And the one genuinely bad thing that psychotic uncle does to nice young man (when he finds out about the granny-banging) isn't even a bad thing!! it's a 'wow that COULD have been really bad!!! but it wasn't actually!!!!' so hmmm. Perhaps Martin Amis has discovered Prozac. Dunno.
Speaking of antidepressants, I might be in need by the time I finish _Food Politics_, Marion Nestle's devastating, immaculately researched, horrifically readable deconstruction of the food-industrial-complex. To save you the pain of the gory details (and they are gory), here's the summary: the junk food industry is more gigantic and powerful than you can possibly imagine. The government is helplessly corrupt and can do nothing to stop it, and in many cases has simply been purchased outright by the junk food industry. The junk food industry is knowingly out to make every single person on the planet sick, fat, and unhappy. Eek! WTF. I am going to buy a copy of that Jane Smiley book, "Ordinary Love and Good Will" in which a family goes completely off the grid and take notes on how they do it, and then declare myself a rogue nation. While we were eating dinner tonight, I made a point of giving the baby a kiss every time she had a bite of vegetables, to reinforce the message. If you eat your veggies, I'll send you a virtual kiss as well. And vote yes on Prop 37 if you're a California voter.
The Tim Kasser book is decidedly more 'lite' - it was recommended by a friend as being the best book they'd read all decade, which is stretching it a bit, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. He takes some 200 pages to say the same thing over and over (and over) again: studies apparently consistently show that materialistic people are more miserable and more anxious than non materialistic people, and once you have your basic needs taken care of (food/shelter/warm/clothing) then more possessions just make you unhappier. So eat your vegetables and get rid of your stuff.
I mention the Roger Hargreaves Mr. Men books just as a reminder to myself that I really did love them when I was little, because I really, really, really hate them now, having had to read each one of them about five thousand times. There are a few that I particularly particularly hate (Mr. Greedy, Mr. Small, Mr. Jelly) that I find myself accidentally on purpose kicking under the sofa where they please GOD will not be discovered for a bit, and we might have a few days respite from them.
La Sombra del Viento I ordered off the internets because it was recommended by the same friend as the Tim Kasser book - I was nervous about it because I am veerrrrrryyyyy slow reading in Spanish, and I wasn't sure how highbrow it was going to be, but I cracked it open a few nights ago and laughed out loud at the ginormous font size, so I think I'll be OK.
Back to Food Politics, which I can't put down - it's like a really detailed, calm description of Armageddon. If the baby's not dead of diabetes related complications by the time she's five, I'll consider it a victory.
Peter Carey, His Illegal Self
Marion Nestle, Food Politics (about two thirds of the way through, but I've got the gist)
Roger Hargreaves, Mr. Men series
Martin Amis, Lionel Asbo, State of England
Tim Kasser, The High Price of Materialism
Carlois Ruiz Zafran, La Sombra del Viento (first few pages of)
Hello, great reading public of about five people! How are you? I am feeling particularly smug because I have a sleeping child AND did not myself become exhausted in the process of achieving said asleep child. In fact, here I am propped in my bed with my laptop preparing to send my blather out into the blogosphere and still have time to read a few more pages of Food Politics before I conk out.
First off, Peter Carey - this book came to me via a fairly dubious route. Newish friend (who is very nice, but who is sufficiently new that I don't have a good sense of his book taste yet) picked it up off the street in San Francisco (as in, it had been actively discarded/rejected by someone else) and took it home and never read it. He then had a party in which he gave/loaned away all his books (because he was moving) - rejection number two for this book - and it was taken home by my sister, who decided she didn't want to read it herself - rejection number three - so she passed it on to me. hmmmm...... but I did read it, and it was sweet, if a little farfetched. It's about a boy who was the child of crazy bomb-setting sixties radical parents who is inadvertently kidnapped by a woman who used to work with said radical parents, and they wind up in a hippie commune in the Australian outback where initially all the inhabitants are stoned/sinister/passive-aggressive (or some combination of the above) but magically at the end turn out to be radiantly helpful and good, which, I dunno, just seemed a bit improbable. For half the book, the boy doesn't know properly where he came from and what happened to him, and for most of the book I will confess I was equally if not more confused - there are a few crucial plot points that are only alluded to fairly cryptically - but the prose is nice in bits, and I'm glad I read it. (I was a bit surprised that it got a Man Booker prize nomination, but that probably just means that one of the judges for the Man Booker prize used to live on a hippie commune in the Australian outback and was feeling nostalgic.)
The Martin Amis book also found its way to me with no effort on my part - it was a gift from babydaddy which he had heard reviewed on NPR and thought I would like, (presumably because it has the word 'England' in the title...?) I am a little skittish about Mr. Amis, because he is reliably such a downer (see previous entries) but this one again was an enjoyable read while at the same time feeling just a little improbably optimistic. What are the chances that a young man who lives in a poverty & crime-ridden neighbourhood, whose teenage mother died when he was 12 and who was raised by a completely, but COMPLETELY delinquent and derangedly narcissistic violent uncle, would somehow be consistently sweet, educated, polite, mostly law-abiding, faithful, honest and reliable. (And the one illegal thing he does do - have sex with his grandmother at the beginning of the book, feels totally, um, unrealistic). And the one genuinely bad thing that psychotic uncle does to nice young man (when he finds out about the granny-banging) isn't even a bad thing!! it's a 'wow that COULD have been really bad!!! but it wasn't actually!!!!' so hmmm. Perhaps Martin Amis has discovered Prozac. Dunno.
Speaking of antidepressants, I might be in need by the time I finish _Food Politics_, Marion Nestle's devastating, immaculately researched, horrifically readable deconstruction of the food-industrial-complex. To save you the pain of the gory details (and they are gory), here's the summary: the junk food industry is more gigantic and powerful than you can possibly imagine. The government is helplessly corrupt and can do nothing to stop it, and in many cases has simply been purchased outright by the junk food industry. The junk food industry is knowingly out to make every single person on the planet sick, fat, and unhappy. Eek! WTF. I am going to buy a copy of that Jane Smiley book, "Ordinary Love and Good Will" in which a family goes completely off the grid and take notes on how they do it, and then declare myself a rogue nation. While we were eating dinner tonight, I made a point of giving the baby a kiss every time she had a bite of vegetables, to reinforce the message. If you eat your veggies, I'll send you a virtual kiss as well. And vote yes on Prop 37 if you're a California voter.
The Tim Kasser book is decidedly more 'lite' - it was recommended by a friend as being the best book they'd read all decade, which is stretching it a bit, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. He takes some 200 pages to say the same thing over and over (and over) again: studies apparently consistently show that materialistic people are more miserable and more anxious than non materialistic people, and once you have your basic needs taken care of (food/shelter/warm/clothing) then more possessions just make you unhappier. So eat your vegetables and get rid of your stuff.
I mention the Roger Hargreaves Mr. Men books just as a reminder to myself that I really did love them when I was little, because I really, really, really hate them now, having had to read each one of them about five thousand times. There are a few that I particularly particularly hate (Mr. Greedy, Mr. Small, Mr. Jelly) that I find myself accidentally on purpose kicking under the sofa where they please GOD will not be discovered for a bit, and we might have a few days respite from them.
La Sombra del Viento I ordered off the internets because it was recommended by the same friend as the Tim Kasser book - I was nervous about it because I am veerrrrrryyyyy slow reading in Spanish, and I wasn't sure how highbrow it was going to be, but I cracked it open a few nights ago and laughed out loud at the ginormous font size, so I think I'll be OK.
Back to Food Politics, which I can't put down - it's like a really detailed, calm description of Armageddon. If the baby's not dead of diabetes related complications by the time she's five, I'll consider it a victory.
Monday, 10 September 2012
Books read:
Hilary Mantel, Bring Up the Bodies (along w London Review of Books review of same)
Sebastian Barry, The Secret Scripture
Roger Hargreaves, The Mister Men series (approximarely 3546 times each)
Juan Orozco, Latin American Folksongs for Children (approximaely 7853 times)
Alan Bradley, A Red Herring without Mustard
Edward St. Aubyn, The Patrick Melrose Novels
Alice LaPlante, Turn of Mind
Colum McCann, Let The Great World Spin
Books reading:
Infinite Jest (I am NEVER GOING to finish this book. Is that why he called it that? I don't think that's funny)
The Beatles: The Biography, Bob Spitz
Pillars of the Earth, Ken Follett
I have read more than this since I last posted, I absolutely promise, I'm just lying on the dark sandy metaphorical ocean floor with a gigantic Pacific-sized layer of tiredness and overwhelmedness sloshing around on top of me these days. However! that is a pathetic excuse, as everyone in the entire universe is tired and busy, except for my nearly two-year-old, who is inexhaustible and busy, so here is the latest (OK, very late) and greatest update from Nick Hornby, Will You Be Our Friend. (On a side note, I should say that this blog has done absolutely nothing with regards to its original stated purpose; Nick (Mr. Hornby?) so far as I know is completely unaware of its existence. Oh well. Tant pis. At least it helps me realize it sooner if I accidentally pick up the same book twice.)
We all know about my crush on Hilary Mantel, so I will keep my raving about BUTB brief: it is so so so so juicy good, but much, much sadder and a bit darker than Wolf Hall, because you can feel the very beginning of the ultimate squeeze that will get Thomas Cromwell, and it's agonizing. I don't think I will be able to bear the last of the trilogy unless I'm assured something resembling a happy ending, which seems deeply unlikely. I was shamed by the London Review critique of the book, because it made me realize how way more erudite both Hilary Mantel and the London Review people are: where the phrase "bring up the bodies" comes from (anyone accused of treason was considered already dead until proven otherwise), quotes from Henry VIII's poetry repeatedly alluded to in the text, a subplot regarding Thomas Cromwell's helping along Katherine of Aragon's death with a flagon of poisoned ale from a Welsh innkeeper, and said innkeeper subsequently also dying in dodgy circumstances - TOTALLY MISSED ALL OF THAT. wtf. I blame Hilary for spinning such a good yarn that I was racing through the pages. She wants people to pay attention to the details, she needs to slow down and be a bit more boring. (Like the Ken Follett, for example: not totally dissimilar settings/scope but what (ten pages in) what a dumb, dumb book. I used to read Ken Follett thrillers when I was a teenager because the naughty bits were secretly thrilling, and I picked this one up in the library in a fit of nostalgia, but I don't think I'm going to get more than the ten pages into it, naughty bits or no naughty bits.)
Sebastian Barry lovely and mostly serious and very poetic and even though I saw the twist at the end coming a mile away, it didn't detract from the book at all. Five stars for you, Mr. Barry. You have earned yourself the dubious honor that I am now and for ever after willing to read anything you write; Nicholson Baker funny, not life-changing/earth-shattering (protagonist totally forgettable, for instance) but I really, really liked the points he made about 4 vs 5 vs 6 beat lines in poetry (sorry this sounds really academic and snotty, but his point is actually very pro-popular music and old fashioned rhyming/scanning poetry, that iambic pentameter is a misnomer because for it to scan properly, you need a silent 6th musical beat at the end of the line).
Edward St Aubyn - completely didn't get the point of the Patrick Melrose novels, which as far as I could tell were about very rich and unpleasant people doing unpleasant things to each other and to themselves. There were a few descriptions of crack-induced hallucinations which were cool on strictly aesthetic grounds, but I felt absolutely zippo in terms of credibility or emotional connection to any of the characters.
Oh dear and on that note, before I've even gotten half way through my list, the only credible thing I can imagine feeling emotionally connected to right now is my bed, so thither I go.
Hilary Mantel, Bring Up the Bodies (along w London Review of Books review of same)
Sebastian Barry, The Secret Scripture
Roger Hargreaves, The Mister Men series (approximarely 3546 times each)
Juan Orozco, Latin American Folksongs for Children (approximaely 7853 times)
Alan Bradley, A Red Herring without Mustard
Edward St. Aubyn, The Patrick Melrose Novels
Alice LaPlante, Turn of Mind
Colum McCann, Let The Great World Spin
Books reading:
Infinite Jest (I am NEVER GOING to finish this book. Is that why he called it that? I don't think that's funny)
The Beatles: The Biography, Bob Spitz
Pillars of the Earth, Ken Follett
I have read more than this since I last posted, I absolutely promise, I'm just lying on the dark sandy metaphorical ocean floor with a gigantic Pacific-sized layer of tiredness and overwhelmedness sloshing around on top of me these days. However! that is a pathetic excuse, as everyone in the entire universe is tired and busy, except for my nearly two-year-old, who is inexhaustible and busy, so here is the latest (OK, very late) and greatest update from Nick Hornby, Will You Be Our Friend. (On a side note, I should say that this blog has done absolutely nothing with regards to its original stated purpose; Nick (Mr. Hornby?) so far as I know is completely unaware of its existence. Oh well. Tant pis. At least it helps me realize it sooner if I accidentally pick up the same book twice.)
We all know about my crush on Hilary Mantel, so I will keep my raving about BUTB brief: it is so so so so juicy good, but much, much sadder and a bit darker than Wolf Hall, because you can feel the very beginning of the ultimate squeeze that will get Thomas Cromwell, and it's agonizing. I don't think I will be able to bear the last of the trilogy unless I'm assured something resembling a happy ending, which seems deeply unlikely. I was shamed by the London Review critique of the book, because it made me realize how way more erudite both Hilary Mantel and the London Review people are: where the phrase "bring up the bodies" comes from (anyone accused of treason was considered already dead until proven otherwise), quotes from Henry VIII's poetry repeatedly alluded to in the text, a subplot regarding Thomas Cromwell's helping along Katherine of Aragon's death with a flagon of poisoned ale from a Welsh innkeeper, and said innkeeper subsequently also dying in dodgy circumstances - TOTALLY MISSED ALL OF THAT. wtf. I blame Hilary for spinning such a good yarn that I was racing through the pages. She wants people to pay attention to the details, she needs to slow down and be a bit more boring. (Like the Ken Follett, for example: not totally dissimilar settings/scope but what (ten pages in) what a dumb, dumb book. I used to read Ken Follett thrillers when I was a teenager because the naughty bits were secretly thrilling, and I picked this one up in the library in a fit of nostalgia, but I don't think I'm going to get more than the ten pages into it, naughty bits or no naughty bits.)
Sebastian Barry lovely and mostly serious and very poetic and even though I saw the twist at the end coming a mile away, it didn't detract from the book at all. Five stars for you, Mr. Barry. You have earned yourself the dubious honor that I am now and for ever after willing to read anything you write; Nicholson Baker funny, not life-changing/earth-shattering (protagonist totally forgettable, for instance) but I really, really liked the points he made about 4 vs 5 vs 6 beat lines in poetry (sorry this sounds really academic and snotty, but his point is actually very pro-popular music and old fashioned rhyming/scanning poetry, that iambic pentameter is a misnomer because for it to scan properly, you need a silent 6th musical beat at the end of the line).
Edward St Aubyn - completely didn't get the point of the Patrick Melrose novels, which as far as I could tell were about very rich and unpleasant people doing unpleasant things to each other and to themselves. There were a few descriptions of crack-induced hallucinations which were cool on strictly aesthetic grounds, but I felt absolutely zippo in terms of credibility or emotional connection to any of the characters.
Oh dear and on that note, before I've even gotten half way through my list, the only credible thing I can imagine feeling emotionally connected to right now is my bed, so thither I go.
Sunday, 17 June 2012
June 2012
Thursday, 2 February 2012
so behind! eek!
wait, i start every entry like that...
Books read:
At Home: A Short History of Private Life, Bill Bryson
Shakespeare, Bill Bryson
Cooking with Fernet Branca, James Hamilton Paterson
The Imperfectionists, Tom Rachman
Papier Mache Monsters, Dan Reeder
Best European Fiction 2010, edited by Aleksander Hemon
Instead of a Letter, Diana Athill
Somewhere Towards the End, Diana Athill
and a few other things that I know I read since I last wrote, but can't remember now. Sad sad sad.
Bill Bryson: the At Home book was a little unfocussed?? if that is the right word, but still enjoyable. QUITE FANTASTIC, however, was the Shakespeare book: he goes through and actually documents all the primary sources to figure out what is really properly known (so far) about Shakespeare's life, and the excellentest part of all is the very last chapter when he goes on a riproaring un-Bryson like rampage against all the conspiracy theorists who say Shakespeare couldn't possibly have written Shakespeare. Read. Now. Fun. (Fun, but still very scholarly, so you can look clever while reading it).
Cooking with Fernet Branca is a tricky book to describe - seriously, seriously loopy & quite literate, it features my very favourite fiction trick of all: the unreliable narrator (TWO of them, in fact!), as well as deliciously tightly packed precise prose. I was slightly disappointed that the narrators didn't turn out to be quite as unreliable as you might hope (i.e. what from even the first paragraph smells of a mere delusion of competence turns out to be actual competence, sort of), and a few of the weirder elements (the male protagonist, for instance, has a penchant for bizarre recipes involving endangered species) don't quite make sense even within the context of the loopiness of the book, but overall yay very funny and thank you to my sister for passing it on.
I don't even want to think any more about the Tom Rachman book, I am so cross with it. Well, more to the point, I am cross with the reviewers they quoted on the back cover, who made the book sound like a bundle of high-class fun with misleading words/phrases like "hilarious" and "beguiling" and "finding out where the author is going is half the fun." The book consists of a series of interwoven stories told from the perspective of each of the employees at a failing English-language newspaper based in Rome, and **spoiler alert** every single one of the stories leaves you with a hard painful lump in your stomach about what a horrible unfair tragic place the world is. When a basset hound called Schopenhauer, his hapless master's only friend, gets its neck wrung for no good reason, I'm sorry to say, I decided I couldn't be friends with Mr. Rachman even though I am sure he is very nice in person.
Papier Mache Monsters, on the other hand: wow, now, there is a book to restore your faith in joy in the universe. Even if you no interest whatsoever in creating awesome papier mache monsters, you should read this book. It has lovely pictures and he is funny and makes jokes about his cat who was obviously trying very hard to get in the way during the photo shoot for the book and he boosted my level of interest in one day creating my very own papier mache monster from maybe a 2 out of 10 before reading the book up to a 6.5. (I actually got it out of the library thinking it might have some pointers useful for making a papier mache elephant-shaped chest of drawers, which has a longer story behind it that needs to be told here). So there.
Best European Fiction - meh. so far not loving it. (I kind of gave up half way through, to be honest). Very laudable that they are trying to publish stories originally written in languages that are not big players (Galician, Slovenian, Irish, etc.) that you would otherwise never find, but Aleksander Hemon has... very male taste in fiction. Driftless middle aged men who are unhappy; occasionally there's an encounter with either a prostitute or an implausibly nice/pretty/young girl; they go back to being miserable. Half way through the book, I finally caught on, and I thought, hmm, I don't think I need to finish this.
but TAHDAH! here is the WHOLE POINT of this blog entry, which is Diana Athill's Somewhere Towards the End omg omg omg omg everyone should read this book I loved it loved it loved it. Some background: Diana Athill is a nonagenarian who worked her whole life in publishing as a literary editor; she has written a couple of memoirish books previous to this, but this one specifically is about growing old (i think she was 89 when she wrote it) and it is nothing short of a revelation (I thought). She is so generous, so clear-sighted, so funny, such a smartypants, marbles so much more intact than mine are at 37, and so credibly grateful for all the experiences she has had. I am going to have to go back and read this book again. And possibly again after that, every few years until it becomes obvious that I will never be as graceful in my outlook on life as she is. I couldn't stop talking about this book for days after I finished it, and I think I recommended it to all sorts of probably inappropriate people.
And now for something completely different: bed! yay!
Books read:
At Home: A Short History of Private Life, Bill Bryson
Shakespeare, Bill Bryson
Cooking with Fernet Branca, James Hamilton Paterson
The Imperfectionists, Tom Rachman
Papier Mache Monsters, Dan Reeder
Best European Fiction 2010, edited by Aleksander Hemon
Instead of a Letter, Diana Athill
Somewhere Towards the End, Diana Athill
and a few other things that I know I read since I last wrote, but can't remember now. Sad sad sad.
Bill Bryson: the At Home book was a little unfocussed?? if that is the right word, but still enjoyable. QUITE FANTASTIC, however, was the Shakespeare book: he goes through and actually documents all the primary sources to figure out what is really properly known (so far) about Shakespeare's life, and the excellentest part of all is the very last chapter when he goes on a riproaring un-Bryson like rampage against all the conspiracy theorists who say Shakespeare couldn't possibly have written Shakespeare. Read. Now. Fun. (Fun, but still very scholarly, so you can look clever while reading it).
Cooking with Fernet Branca is a tricky book to describe - seriously, seriously loopy & quite literate, it features my very favourite fiction trick of all: the unreliable narrator (TWO of them, in fact!), as well as deliciously tightly packed precise prose. I was slightly disappointed that the narrators didn't turn out to be quite as unreliable as you might hope (i.e. what from even the first paragraph smells of a mere delusion of competence turns out to be actual competence, sort of), and a few of the weirder elements (the male protagonist, for instance, has a penchant for bizarre recipes involving endangered species) don't quite make sense even within the context of the loopiness of the book, but overall yay very funny and thank you to my sister for passing it on.
I don't even want to think any more about the Tom Rachman book, I am so cross with it. Well, more to the point, I am cross with the reviewers they quoted on the back cover, who made the book sound like a bundle of high-class fun with misleading words/phrases like "hilarious" and "beguiling" and "finding out where the author is going is half the fun." The book consists of a series of interwoven stories told from the perspective of each of the employees at a failing English-language newspaper based in Rome, and **spoiler alert** every single one of the stories leaves you with a hard painful lump in your stomach about what a horrible unfair tragic place the world is. When a basset hound called Schopenhauer, his hapless master's only friend, gets its neck wrung for no good reason, I'm sorry to say, I decided I couldn't be friends with Mr. Rachman even though I am sure he is very nice in person.
Papier Mache Monsters, on the other hand: wow, now, there is a book to restore your faith in joy in the universe. Even if you no interest whatsoever in creating awesome papier mache monsters, you should read this book. It has lovely pictures and he is funny and makes jokes about his cat who was obviously trying very hard to get in the way during the photo shoot for the book and he boosted my level of interest in one day creating my very own papier mache monster from maybe a 2 out of 10 before reading the book up to a 6.5. (I actually got it out of the library thinking it might have some pointers useful for making a papier mache elephant-shaped chest of drawers, which has a longer story behind it that needs to be told here). So there.
Best European Fiction - meh. so far not loving it. (I kind of gave up half way through, to be honest). Very laudable that they are trying to publish stories originally written in languages that are not big players (Galician, Slovenian, Irish, etc.) that you would otherwise never find, but Aleksander Hemon has... very male taste in fiction. Driftless middle aged men who are unhappy; occasionally there's an encounter with either a prostitute or an implausibly nice/pretty/young girl; they go back to being miserable. Half way through the book, I finally caught on, and I thought, hmm, I don't think I need to finish this.
but TAHDAH! here is the WHOLE POINT of this blog entry, which is Diana Athill's Somewhere Towards the End omg omg omg omg everyone should read this book I loved it loved it loved it. Some background: Diana Athill is a nonagenarian who worked her whole life in publishing as a literary editor; she has written a couple of memoirish books previous to this, but this one specifically is about growing old (i think she was 89 when she wrote it) and it is nothing short of a revelation (I thought). She is so generous, so clear-sighted, so funny, such a smartypants, marbles so much more intact than mine are at 37, and so credibly grateful for all the experiences she has had. I am going to have to go back and read this book again. And possibly again after that, every few years until it becomes obvious that I will never be as graceful in my outlook on life as she is. I couldn't stop talking about this book for days after I finished it, and I think I recommended it to all sorts of probably inappropriate people.
And now for something completely different: bed! yay!
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