Book me
In between nursing, nappies, narrating, New Yorkers and needless alliteration, I managed to read a few books this past month! Yup, that is exclamation point worthy. Mila is back.
After a hiatus of ridiculous proportion, I returned to Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown. It had been so long since I had read the first 50 pages that I actually had to go back and start over. The parts set in Kashmir were wonderful, but the framing stories of Max Ophuls and his daughter India/Kashmira irritated me. Midnight’s Children is one of my favorite books but, after The Ground Beneath Her Feet met with disappointment, I didn’t bother with his penultimate novel and I’m not sure if I should have with this one. I find reading Rushdie now so frustrating, since parts are sheer brilliance whereas other bits are literary masturbation almost on par with the onanism of Martin Amis. Well, perhaps not, since that would require a Costco membership to stock up on tissue.
Next, I read last year’s Pulitzer Prize winner, The Known World. It was the antidote to Rushdie my literary doctor ordered. Jones painted a wide canvas in detailed muted colors, that was very effective and affective. A lovely novel which I highly recommend.
I love a bit of belle lettre trash, and the epistolary novel A Factory of Cunning by Philippa Stockley fit the bill nicely. Although she is never explicitly named, it follows the London adventures of The Marquise de Merteuil (Les Liaisons Dangereuses) after her French disgrace. As a bonus, the author studied costume design and her knowledge is evident.
I started reading Handling Sin by the divine Michael Malone but two other books invaded our house only pages into it, temporarily putting the Malone on the back burner while I devour these irresistible tomes: Becoming the Parent You Want to Be and The Dirt by Motley Crue. You read that correctly, a book by Motley Crue. And I can barely put it down. Well, at least when Yelena is awake. I find it too disconcerting to read a tale of rock and roll debauchery while breast feeding, which is where the parenting book comes in. Talk about juxtaposition.
Now, to say that I’ve never been a Motley Crue fan would be an understatement. I never went through a metal phase and, if I did, I probably would not have extended past Metallica and Iron Maiden into the bottom of a trashy barrel. Basically, all I know of Motley Crue are a few MTV videos, the scary girls in high school who liked them and the Tommy Lee home sex video, whose riveting dialogue Dennis and I used to quote for giggles. When we were in Long Beach Dennis told us we had to read it. “You are kidding?!” “No, you really have to read it! I promise, you won’t regret it.” He has impeccable musical taste, and is thus not a Crue fan, but he overheard someone reading it in a record store and was laughing so hard he had to get it. His guarantee held true. Not that I’d recommend it to my mother, but it is a great book.
After a hiatus of ridiculous proportion, I returned to Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown. It had been so long since I had read the first 50 pages that I actually had to go back and start over. The parts set in Kashmir were wonderful, but the framing stories of Max Ophuls and his daughter India/Kashmira irritated me. Midnight’s Children is one of my favorite books but, after The Ground Beneath Her Feet met with disappointment, I didn’t bother with his penultimate novel and I’m not sure if I should have with this one. I find reading Rushdie now so frustrating, since parts are sheer brilliance whereas other bits are literary masturbation almost on par with the onanism of Martin Amis. Well, perhaps not, since that would require a Costco membership to stock up on tissue.
Next, I read last year’s Pulitzer Prize winner, The Known World. It was the antidote to Rushdie my literary doctor ordered. Jones painted a wide canvas in detailed muted colors, that was very effective and affective. A lovely novel which I highly recommend.
I love a bit of belle lettre trash, and the epistolary novel A Factory of Cunning by Philippa Stockley fit the bill nicely. Although she is never explicitly named, it follows the London adventures of The Marquise de Merteuil (Les Liaisons Dangereuses) after her French disgrace. As a bonus, the author studied costume design and her knowledge is evident.
I started reading Handling Sin by the divine Michael Malone but two other books invaded our house only pages into it, temporarily putting the Malone on the back burner while I devour these irresistible tomes: Becoming the Parent You Want to Be and The Dirt by Motley Crue. You read that correctly, a book by Motley Crue. And I can barely put it down. Well, at least when Yelena is awake. I find it too disconcerting to read a tale of rock and roll debauchery while breast feeding, which is where the parenting book comes in. Talk about juxtaposition.
Now, to say that I’ve never been a Motley Crue fan would be an understatement. I never went through a metal phase and, if I did, I probably would not have extended past Metallica and Iron Maiden into the bottom of a trashy barrel. Basically, all I know of Motley Crue are a few MTV videos, the scary girls in high school who liked them and the Tommy Lee home sex video, whose riveting dialogue Dennis and I used to quote for giggles. When we were in Long Beach Dennis told us we had to read it. “You are kidding?!” “No, you really have to read it! I promise, you won’t regret it.” He has impeccable musical taste, and is thus not a Crue fan, but he overheard someone reading it in a record store and was laughing so hard he had to get it. His guarantee held true. Not that I’d recommend it to my mother, but it is a great book.
Yeah, I'm posting on Shabbas. Blogger has removed the editable time so I can't fake that I put this up before sundown. There goes any pretense.
posted by Mi at 11:06 PM
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