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I've had time to read the past couple of weeks, and pushed through a few books.
Reread Strong Poison. Happy. It makes me happy.
Read Mariana by Monica Dickens. Happy. It made me happy. And sad. And amused.
The House of Sleep, by Jonathan Coe, is my reading group's most recent selection, and this comes with a real recommendation. It's a story of four students that lived in the same house in the early 80s, how their lives and dreams intersected then, and how their lives and dreams intersect more than a decade later. It's warm and clever, has a very moving ending, and also in the penultimate section there is the culmination of a breathtakingly funny joke that alone makes the book worthwhile. The intricate plotting is very satisfactory, and reminded me a lot of Barbara Trapido. Compulsively readable. Very recommended.
I picked up The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho last night in a cheap ploy to raise the number of books I'd read on that list. Well, it's been sitting on my shelf for a good few years now, and it's short, so I thought I might as well give it a bash. I suspect the reason I never tried it before is that the first few pages are encomiums from people who have written books with titles like Awaken the Giant Within and Love is Letting Go of Fear. It's a simple fable which I think edges a bit on the banal (who knows what's lost in translation), but the payoff does have a punch. I think I'd already got the message from:
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
But I know that's not everyone's cup of tea.
The week before last I read Swastika Night by Katharine Burdekin. I have so many things to say about this book, I've been thinking about it almost all of the time since I read it. It frustrates me how long it takes me these days to put down my thoughts outside of fiction. I am so envious of people who can sit and rattle off long essays.
Reread Strong Poison. Happy. It makes me happy.
Read Mariana by Monica Dickens. Happy. It made me happy. And sad. And amused.
The House of Sleep, by Jonathan Coe, is my reading group's most recent selection, and this comes with a real recommendation. It's a story of four students that lived in the same house in the early 80s, how their lives and dreams intersected then, and how their lives and dreams intersect more than a decade later. It's warm and clever, has a very moving ending, and also in the penultimate section there is the culmination of a breathtakingly funny joke that alone makes the book worthwhile. The intricate plotting is very satisfactory, and reminded me a lot of Barbara Trapido. Compulsively readable. Very recommended.
I picked up The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho last night in a cheap ploy to raise the number of books I'd read on that list. Well, it's been sitting on my shelf for a good few years now, and it's short, so I thought I might as well give it a bash. I suspect the reason I never tried it before is that the first few pages are encomiums from people who have written books with titles like Awaken the Giant Within and Love is Letting Go of Fear. It's a simple fable which I think edges a bit on the banal (who knows what's lost in translation), but the payoff does have a punch. I think I'd already got the message from:
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
But I know that's not everyone's cup of tea.
The week before last I read Swastika Night by Katharine Burdekin. I have so many things to say about this book, I've been thinking about it almost all of the time since I read it. It frustrates me how long it takes me these days to put down my thoughts outside of fiction. I am so envious of people who can sit and rattle off long essays.
