On the Nightstand
I'm supposed to be well read, yes? If I can make it through "Star Tracks" in People magazine before I fall asleep, I consider it a good literary day.
Nevertheless, sometimes I neglect my other responsibilities and read works longer than three paragraphs. I just finished The Tin Roof Blowdown by James Lee Burke. Every seven or eight pages, Burke writes something that makes me feel like I'm an idiot because I can't figure out what the hell he is talking about, but mostly, he is just a great writer. His writing is almost magical realism, but grittier. He makes me want to have lived in New Orleans. The novels in his Dave Robicheaux series are addictive, and I plowed through this one. He's better than your average mystery writer.
The book that I've given as a gift most frequently in the last year is J. Maarten Troost's The Sex Lives of Cannibals, which might just actually be the funniest book I have ever read in my life. OK, "You Can't Kill the Rooster" in David Sedaris's Me Talk Pretty Some Day is off the charts hilarious, but that doesn't count because it's an essay, or a chapter, or something. I'm a complete travel narrative junkie, so my perspective can be a little biased in favor of books people write about their world odyssey experiences, but this is not to be missed. Troost's next book, Getting Stoned With the Savages, was good, but can't compete with the first one. He's got a new one coming out this summer, Lost on Planet China, and I can't wait.
I am, like most everyone else in the universe, bombarded regularly with emails from Borders. Last week I opened one up and found a recommendation for a book written by someone whose name was familiar. Kelly Corrigan's memoir, The Middle Place is everywhere at the moment: Oprah magazine, People magazine, some morning television shows, and on and on. And deservedly so, in my humble opinion. I went to camp with Corrigan a looong time ago and we maintained a very brief friendship during those heinous middle school years, but lost touch, you know, like you do. I bought the book and read it all in one night. I don't know if my personal connection with the author was a factor, but I really liked it. She is one of those writers who makes you feel like you are vastly under-using the English language. And she wrote about her battle with cancer in a way that was not remotely tired or expected. In fact, the book was not so much actually a memoir about her battle with cancer. The cancer served more like a symbol (although I am pretty sure it felt a heck of a lot more than symbolic to her and her family--I don't mean to minimize the experience) of whatever that thing is that boots you out of whatever comfortable place you inhabit and right on into full-fledged adulthood. It resonated. And I wish her well.
Finally, and book-related, although not technically about a book I'm reading at the moment, PBS is about to air SIX Jane Austen novel adaptations. I can hardly stand it. I'm not sure how I'm going to manage my life and job and family when, clearly, I need to be watching a great deal of television. Perhaps I should investigate some kind of sabbatical...from everything.
Nevertheless, sometimes I neglect my other responsibilities and read works longer than three paragraphs. I just finished The Tin Roof Blowdown by James Lee Burke. Every seven or eight pages, Burke writes something that makes me feel like I'm an idiot because I can't figure out what the hell he is talking about, but mostly, he is just a great writer. His writing is almost magical realism, but grittier. He makes me want to have lived in New Orleans. The novels in his Dave Robicheaux series are addictive, and I plowed through this one. He's better than your average mystery writer.
The book that I've given as a gift most frequently in the last year is J. Maarten Troost's The Sex Lives of Cannibals, which might just actually be the funniest book I have ever read in my life. OK, "You Can't Kill the Rooster" in David Sedaris's Me Talk Pretty Some Day is off the charts hilarious, but that doesn't count because it's an essay, or a chapter, or something. I'm a complete travel narrative junkie, so my perspective can be a little biased in favor of books people write about their world odyssey experiences, but this is not to be missed. Troost's next book, Getting Stoned With the Savages, was good, but can't compete with the first one. He's got a new one coming out this summer, Lost on Planet China, and I can't wait.
I am, like most everyone else in the universe, bombarded regularly with emails from Borders. Last week I opened one up and found a recommendation for a book written by someone whose name was familiar. Kelly Corrigan's memoir, The Middle Place is everywhere at the moment: Oprah magazine, People magazine, some morning television shows, and on and on. And deservedly so, in my humble opinion. I went to camp with Corrigan a looong time ago and we maintained a very brief friendship during those heinous middle school years, but lost touch, you know, like you do. I bought the book and read it all in one night. I don't know if my personal connection with the author was a factor, but I really liked it. She is one of those writers who makes you feel like you are vastly under-using the English language. And she wrote about her battle with cancer in a way that was not remotely tired or expected. In fact, the book was not so much actually a memoir about her battle with cancer. The cancer served more like a symbol (although I am pretty sure it felt a heck of a lot more than symbolic to her and her family--I don't mean to minimize the experience) of whatever that thing is that boots you out of whatever comfortable place you inhabit and right on into full-fledged adulthood. It resonated. And I wish her well.
Finally, and book-related, although not technically about a book I'm reading at the moment, PBS is about to air SIX Jane Austen novel adaptations. I can hardly stand it. I'm not sure how I'm going to manage my life and job and family when, clearly, I need to be watching a great deal of television. Perhaps I should investigate some kind of sabbatical...from everything.
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