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David Sedaris: When You Are Engulfed in Flames
I have noticed in the last couple years that reading while eating has become dissatisfying - I enjoy both less, taste less, remember less. I read most of this while eating. I think it was more mature and not as hysterically funny as Me Talk Pretty One Day, but I also think that last burger needed salt.
Charles Palliser: The Quincunx
A thoroughly engrossing and very long victorian legal mystery/adventure. Also quite enjoyable! It did not end the way I expected.
Cormac McCarthy: The Road
Easily one of the best books I've ever read. I'll give you a dollar if you can make it through without crying.
Anais Nin: Little Birds
Not the one in the picture, but a lovely old red hardbound edition given to me by Heather. It reads like the stories were written over a long period of time, but perhaps the progression of tone was intentional?
Haruki Murakami: Norwegian Wood
My only excuse for not having read this before is that it was just perfect for me now. Rocketed to my favorites list straightaway.
Ernest Hemingway: A Farewell To Arms
The progression of language and complexity through the book was most interesting to me. The depiction of the central couple's affair seems disturbingly co-dependent and unhealthy, but that's just age, I guess.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez: Memories of My Melancholy Whores
Yes, quite good, the right length for a domestic flight. I hate to say "nothing special" but that's how I remember it.
Jerzy Kosinski: Steps
A re-read of a book I thought was too creepy and yucky to ever read again. Densely packed with uncomfortable feelings and moments of brilliance.
Charlie Brooker: Dawn of the Dumb
This is a collection of Charlie Brooker's columns in the Guardian from the last couple of years. If you don't read it, you really ought to start. http://www.guardian.co.uk/profile/charliebrooker
He writes about (british) TV and pop culture in a way that's so f'ing funny it makes me forget that I don't get the references. A bit formulaic when you read them all at a stretch.
James Kelman: How Late It Was, How Late: A Novel
A claustrophobic stream-of-consciousness rant, the focus set so tight you feel like you yourself are blind. Review quotes refer to how funny it is, but perhaps I'm too American to find it anything but choking. In a good way.
"Apologies to . . ." Who? I couldn't read your script at the bottom of the second panel. That's rather unusual, since your strips are normally so easy to grasp, at least at the surface.
On a slightly deeper level, I'm drawn in, and can't help but wonder what it is about that song that triggered your tears. Forgive me for being dense, but was this a post-relationship aftershock?
I'm a long-time lurker -- I don't remember what first brought me here -- and I really admire your clear and uninhibited expression.
May 2006 bring you much creative energy, enjoyment, and enlightenment.
Posted by: Bragan | 12/28/2005 at 10:24 AM
Apologies to Ben Snakepit, who uses that "ghost town" language & imagery, and to whom I owe the idea for this comic in the first place. I got a little carried away with how smoothly my pen was writing.
I hadn't heard that song in a really long time. It's a super happy song, but there's something really bittersweet and nostalgic about the the melody at the second and third lines of the chorus. The words are about "the best day of my life", but the melody suggests that it's really about how there's no way to relive magic days. The song does remind me of Randy, yes, but I don't know why it hit me so hard last night.
Posted by: Lulu | 12/28/2005 at 11:58 AM