Alison Staudingeradultery, magical realism, tanukis and long sentances
Success! I made myself wait to declare victory over this goal until after four books, because my mom claims that Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair is more of a novella than a novel. Either way, I was able to overlook the cover that featured a still from a recent film version and get tangled in a mess of love and Catholicism. This book has all of the reasons that Greene is so damn loveable and is honest in a way that is poignant yet not cloying. I would like to write two pages of which the same could be said.
Next, I tried Villa Incognito a newish offering by Seattle’s own Tim Robbins. I keep going back to this guy, in ardent appreciation of the way he plays with words and cherishes my beloved city. The books always digest quickly and every one has at least one moment when I am so struck with a phrase that I halt in wonder. But, and even more so in this latest book, my heart is rarely touched with the same insistence as my wit wooed head. Villa Incognito is not bad; the opening faux fairy tale is charming indeed, but ultimately as unsatisfying as I have always imagined low-carb pasta to be.
The same could not be said for Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s, One Hundred Years of Solitude , but I imagine that everyone else already knows this. Better than Love in the Time of Cholera, even thought the latter has a better name. I’m sure you’ve read this. I’m sure people have told you to read this. I’ll let your horses lie.
Last, I am very proud to say that I both completed and enjoyed Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner. (And not only because the title reminds me of a Pavement album.) I think I was successful with Faulkner this time around because I am terribly bored, so I have been able to devote myself to keeping abreast of his tricksy-ness and find plot twists mired in pages of seemingly unimportant reminiscing. Beautiful and all that, but also high maintenance and occasionally confusing. Compare it to girls you know at your own peril. 8 years ago
