Book Report
I'm finally getting back into a full reading routine. For a long time, I couldn't concentrate. I put the book down on my chest and stared into the middle distance. Or at the ceiling. But I have snapped out of it.
Alan Furst is a bloody genius. I adore his books. I would say they are an acquired taste, though, and if you get one in your hands, you might say what is Becky talking about? It's short. The plots are episodic and don't connect. Nothing big big big happens. But keep going, dear reader. You will get hypnotized.
I am getting ready to be transported and obsessed by Sylvia Plath and her husband Ted Hughes and his various lovers. But before that, I am now reading
Here's a really dumb statement, but I mean it from the heart.
It's truly amazing how many countries there are and how each one has its traditions and slang and landmarks and wisdom. And in each one, a woman's story is similar.
A number of years ago, I kept track of every book I read. I wrote down the plot and how many stars I gave it on a piece of paper (okay, it was a coupon). My car was littered with them. Finally, I gathered them all up, brought them inside, and tabulated them. I made a list. I have that list in the table next to my bed and I'm sorry I haven't added to it in the intervening years. I've gotten sloppy. But here's the point.
Most of the books on the list were written by women.
I guess that means something about me. It's something I shouldn't forget. I'm interested in women and what they do and what they think. And so are other women.
But of course I still like Alan Furst. And John Irving and Tom Wolfe and some of those other whaddyacallits, men.
A bientot
love,
becky
0 comments:
Post a Comment