Most of the books that I plow through, particularly for this site, are traditionally published. An author writes up a beautiful manuscript and an agent gets it to a publisher, who contracts it, edits it, polishes it, designs it, and gets it into bookstores and servers. There are slight variations–it bursts triumphantly from the slush… Read more »
These are things which are ‘real’, which is a can of worms of a word I am not going to go into here.
Though it ends with an act of arson and several near death experiences, the novel Skippy Dies by Paul Murray left me feeling serene. I felt filled with an overarching sense of meaning, of internal stillness, that comes at the end of a very good book. This is not altogether a good thing–it’s difficult to… Read more »
My reading engines have spluttered to a halt, and I blame you, Amy Tan. Well, no, that’s unfair. I made my way through The Hippopotamus by Stephen Fry, which was much filthier than the back cover copy suggests, and a quite solid mystery novel in its own right. (I was disappointed when the main character… Read more »
So, I’m a little behind in talking about what I’ve been reading. Since the last post I wrote, I’ve finished The Four Fingers of Death by Rick Moody and The Hippopotamus by Stephen Fry, and I’m about a hundred pages into DeLillo’s White Noise, which I feel is overdue. Years ago, on my first attempt,… Read more »
I haven’t seen so many sweater vests and cardigans in my life. I understand how glasses might’ve become a symbol of intelligence–if you read all the time, or need to see in a giant lecture hall the notes you are attempting to share with the class, you will probably want to keep a pair of… Read more »