So things have been hectic lately. I've been juggling shifts for the last month or so to accommodate the couple of family holidays that I've documented on this blog & that's meant six day weeks & one day weekends. Most evenings I'm ready to drop come nine o'clock & certainly not ready to face the world come nine o'clock the next morning when I'm opening up shop. The temptation is, inevitably, to allow myself to sleepily sway to Belle & Sebastian's dulcet tones on the train on the way in ('ooooh, get me away from here, I'm dyin') & catch up on the latest episode of 'GBBO' before bed. In the interest of getting through some recreational reading of my own before my course books loom ahead of me, however, I've been trying to shake off these bad habits. Nobody's perfect. We all lapse into week-old newspaper review supplements that gather dust at the bottom of our tote bags &, ahem, scroll through our bulging backlog of blog posts but I've been trying to maintain momentum from the luxuriously productive time I had for books on my holiday - from the seaside pier to the train platform (should've gone with that blog post title, it's catchy, right?)
As I dropped into my last post about my dreamy week in Cornwall lately, I managed to read Javier Marias' 'The Infatuations' & 'Beautiful Ruins' by Jess Walters during my week away. Neither were exactly what I had expected. I will readily admit both that I am a complete strange to crime fiction & that I had Jess Walters' novel down as the lightest of my book choices. While I had subconsciously categorised 'The Infatuations' down as an exercise in European noir springing from a passionate love affair, I was surprised by its singular narration & its cerebral wondering on the nature of truth & of the relationship between the living & the dead. One chapter through 'Beautiful Ruins' I also realised that the techni-coloured cover had sold it short in terms of its intelligence, wit & minutely drawn scenes of a dilapidated hotel in 1960s Sicily & its similarly, spiritually dilapidated owner that is confronted with a vision of Hollywood glamour to which he clings for most of his adult life. The explorations of the nature of hope, ambition & love through the prism of a multitude of wild characters including a particularly hilarious Richard Burton himself, exceeded my expectations of this novel & have meant that it's already packed to pass onto my Mum when I head home this weekend.
Although it seems like a long time ago now (holidays always do, don't they?), I have only had the chance to start one other in my teetering pile of unread books thus far & it had to be the second volume of Knausgaard. Its spine has sat expectantly within view of my pillow for the best part of a couple of months & I knew that it had to be read before the end of August &, most importantly, the beginning of October. Knausgaard surely presents a dilemma for booksellers everywhere as they are repeatedly captivated by his prose without being able to tell anyone why, nonsensically thrusting the first volume of 'My Struggle' into people's hands & maniacally telling them to 'JUST READ IT!!!'. I am quite happy keeping him to myself & the joy that I find in almost every page, I'm only weary of admitting that I'm almost avoiding reading it all for fear of reaching the end.
Inevitably there's always more to look forward to. I recently visited the new Foyles flagship on my second visit & decided that it was a thoroughly brilliant place. I picked up a little pamphlet called 'Berlin Triptych', a couple of essays that paint a portrait of the city after the millennium, while resisting a number of other things. I was also very pleased to chance upon a copy of the endlessly-recommended-to-me 'The Glass Castle' by Jeanette Walls in a Cornish charity shop for £1. A review of the Anna Jones cookbook that I've been pining for & have finally caved into buying will also follow shortly once I've made more than the delectable honey roasted radishes. Mmm radishes.
My most prized possession for the mean time, however, is doubtless the copy of my heroine Lydia Davis' book that she signed for me following an event at the (best) London Review Bookshop last night. Precisely why I encourage people to sign up to their mailing list, I snapped up my ticket minutes after they went on sale & then promptly sold out & I've been looking forward to it ever since. Settled in my seat at 6:40, one arm pressed flush against the cold paint of the wall having run from Russell Square, rapidly warming glass of red balanced in one hand, Karl Ove in the other, I thought about what impression I expected her to make. Regardless, I was held captivated by both Lydia Davis & Adam Thirwell as they talked for an hour - the former shy, a little awkward, evidently intensely thoughtful & very funny. Lydia read a handful of her stories, many of them among my favourites, & I feel lucky that I am able to carry her voice & smile around with me whenever I read them now.
I'd somehow never been to an event at the LRB before last night but the space was ideal & their guestlist is always enviable. I'm making up for lost time, you might say, having booked for another of their evenings in a week or two but more on that again soon.
What've you been reading recently?
Are you amongst one of Lydia Davis' most ardent fangirls too?
Speak soon - O.
No comments:
Post a Comment