Yeah, it's been a while.
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.