Coast-to-coast commentary about books
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Maus I & II
This tumblog was supposed to be a record of a year in California. As an Easterner only in his fourth year in LA, I’m still blown away by the silly, awful, wonderful strangeness of SoCal, and the light, and the mountains, and the motels, and the taco stands, and the graffiti, and the plants that
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That a marriage ends is less than ideal; but all things end under heaven, and if temporality is held to be invalidating, then nothing real succeeds. John Updike, 1932-2009
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The Death of the Heart
Bailed at page 110. I had never read Elizabeth Bowen after all these years, and I pulled this one off the shelf (stole it from my parent’s apartment, actually – sorry, Mom!) because I thought it was supposed to be her best. Maybe it is, but I thought it was a bore, and at a
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Silence
There are writers that blow you away one time. A single book drives you crazy with delight, and as a result you read every single one of his books. And you never experience that same whoosh of excitement. The thrill is gone. After a few years, you know you’re not going to like the next
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Lost Paradise
Ditched, page 32. Wow, what a terrible book. Words almost cannot describe it. It begins with what I can only describe as a white man’s nightmare/fantasy of what happens when an white woman runs out of gas in a black neighborhood. (The book, written by a Dutchman, is set in Brazil. Or at least the
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The Book of Air and Shadows
Ummm. A book bought at the airport, I think. (The one at the American Air terminal at LAX is really not bad, I have to admit.) A potboiler (by Michael Gruber) about a missing Shakespearean manuscript. One of the most relentlessly overwritten mysteries I’ve ever slogged through. In other words, it manages not to deliver
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The Unprofessionals
Ditched after page 37. Interesting thing, though: I actually laughed out loud several times during, say, the first 25 pages. The author (Julie Hecht) begins with a long rant; the narrator is a woman in her 40s who has become a crank. And then the actual narrative begins (such as it is), and I just
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Last Night at the Lobster
Book #2 for the year. Not that I’m counting. I really like fiction about work. American novels should be about work, and making money, shouldn’t they? Work and money are core to the American experience, and probably to the American character, if it comes down to it. Stewart O’Nan’s “Last Night at the Lobster” is
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You Are Not a Stranger Here
The first book I read this year was pretty damn depressing, even if the writing was good: “You Are Not a Stranger Here,” a collection of short stories by Adam Haslett. I had looked at it a few years ago, when it came out and received a lot of attention (Pulitzer finalist, National Book Award
Far From Brooklyn 