Finally finished this, after (supposedly) slogging through it all of February. Probably my slowest reading month in years, but I just had a lot going on, wasn’t on the El very much (my prime reading time!!), and didn’t ever get the energy to pick anything else up so if I wasn’t in the mood for this, then I just didn’t read.

I liked that in this book Marcel stays an identifiable (and seemingly) same age the whole book (vs. book 2 when sometimes the narrative tone seemed to change ages/decades intermittently). He drives you nuts though (in every book) with his obsessions. He’s so consumed with people that he doesn’t even really like but yet is completely attracted to/consumed by. So focused on those slightly above him in society. Trying to find meaning in their (in reality meaningless) aristocratic mannerisms and customs. Finding fault while at the same time trying to emulate.

I’ve said similar things before — so yes I’m repeating myself — but I continue to think the reason these books have maintained their high profile for so many years is because Marcel represents that worst part of all of us. The neurotic, obsessive, self destructive part of us that we don’t show very many people, if any. Yet reading about it is quite fascinating.

Gifted to me for Christmas; probably not something I would have bought myself. That said, I agree with the blurb that it’s written in “a powerful, strikingly original voice.” It certainly took me to a place I’ve never been and am unlikely to ever be, and that’s really about the MOST you can ask out of a piece of art isn’t it.

I liked: the intensity, the descriptions, the “beat” or rhythm of the book. The despair and confusion and misery and longing of the narrator are made palpable.

I didn’t like two things: 1) The “dialect.” The author states in the interview in back that he purposely used this “pidgin english” but I felt it distanced me from the character, rather than giving me insight into him. 2) The fact that his precise age was never really clear; he felt “older” and “younger” in different parts, but the novel was consecutive. How old is a “child soldier”? 8? 15? There’s a big difference between those ages but couldn’t really tell from the text (but maybe you weren’t supposed to be able to?).

It’s a very short book / quick read, but not likely to leave your mind that fast.

The London Review of Books Personal Ads, edited by David Rose
Hilarious. Totally hilarious. The opposite of the traditional “i’m pretty, i’m sensitive, you want to date me” ads. Rather, things like this: Bald, fat and ugly seeks modelesque beauty to save him from living at home with mother.
Laughed so hard at some points I had tears rolling down my face. Definitely a “read out loud to friends” book.

A 1944 murder mystery gifted to me for Christmas. A comedy of errors — you can imagine this somewhat like Woody Allen’s (great) film “Manhattan Murder Mystery” — where a young woman’s amnesia means she doesn’t know whether she’s the killer, a victim, a fiance, or a member of the family she’s traveling with…
Short and sweet, a quick read. Fun!

A memoir anchored by place: his childhood home, a vacation home in Italy, travels in India and Australia.
I first read Malouf last year in Australia where I picked up some of his fiction. This book is nonfiction but the tone and voice are cohesive with his novels. I think he’s a great writer.
Calm, thoughful. Sometimes pensive. Redolent of time and place.

“A Novel of September 12” (per the dust jacket). Good to know, going in.
Paranoia. Distrust. Confusion. Gaps in time, in meaning, in understanding, and between people.
Maybe every couple lived in the gaps between conversations, unable to say the important things for fear they had already been said, or couldn’t be said; maybe every relationship started over every time two people came together.
Not really sure how I felt about it. Sometimes I was as confused as Remy. Other times I felt the answer was obvious.