I told myself I was going to get some reading done this summer, and that, at least is one of the few things I've been getting done. The finito stack, since the end of the semester:
Miss Lonelyhearts/The Day of the Locust--Nathanael West
Illness as Metaphor--Susan Sontag
Seven Nights--Jorge Luis Borges
The Shadow Line--Joseph Conrad
Demian--Hermann Hesse
The Jaguar Smile--Salman Rushdie
Kora and Ka/Mira-Mare--H. D.
Street of Crocodiles--Bruno Schwarz
Confessions of a Justified Sinner--James Hogg
A Night in the Forest--Blaise Cendrars
Bowl of Cherries--Millard Kaufman
Perfume--Patrick Suskind
Let it Come Down--Paul Bowles
I've been feeling rather muddle-headed this past week, rather like how one feels coming out of a bad cold or the flu--I'll see if I can scrape together the grey matter necessary for a more interesting post in the coming days.
--Photo: Davo, Indianapolis Zoo, Underwater Rocks with Spectators
3 comments:
What? No Robert James Waller? Danielle Steel? No Nicholas Sparks? Where are the truly great novels like "Yankee Earl" and "A Doctor-Nurse Encounter"? And you call yourself literate. Ha! Surely you jest!
I know, I know. I waste all this time with books with above-7th-grade-level vocabularies.
No Russians??!
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