Wednesday, July 11, 2007

books books and more books

i guess i'm glad that i've managed to stay on task recently but i am getting so worn out on reading. it may the contemporary british thing in particular tho. as far as i can tell, ian mcewan has written the same book twice (enduring love and saturday) and the essential problem in all of his novels is a failure in communication. people either lie or evade and then, poof!, problems. go figure. you can learn that same lesson every week on days of our lives.

and margaret drabble is just mothers and daughters mothers and daughters mothers and daughters. throw in the occasional dissatisfied marriage and there's yr novel. to be fair, the peppered moth covered several generations of mothers and daughters; it's kind of like the english neurotic's version of 100 yrs of solitude.

maybe i'm just in the mood to piss on everything but i don't think so. it's just all the books i've been reading are such bloody downers. does all 'serious' lit have to be premature ejaculation, addiction, various sexual abuses, and agoraphobia? what about the picaresque, the carnivalesque, the fabulously kinky? por favor. give a poor grad student something lively to read.

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