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.