It’s a pretty odd place to start from if you haven’t read at least the first book in the series. Kind of like starting off in the Tolkein-verse by reading Galadriel’s dream journal. Or a list of what Tom Bombadil eats every day.
Nice summary - I liked Bleeding edge, thought it was an impressive return to form after inherent vice. He still knows how to deliver an emotional punch, albeit camoflaged by masses of Pynchonian warbling.
I’ve read quite a few critics over TP’s past few books saying his voice is dated and no longer relevant [James Woods wrote quite a penetrating criticism of Against the Day that’s made lesser critics’ balls swell up]. I’d prob agree with the first bit, but not the second - his style is not going to change and is embedded in a certain time and place. Pynchon is a master technician, though, and can still work the magic - he got to the heart of matters with Bleeding Edge IMHO.
I finished Stephen King’s* Revival *a few days ago. It was one of the smoothest ones he’s written in the last twenty years, I’d say. I noticed that all of his little writing quirks and hallmarks were still in evidence, but not so obviously that they made me wince/laugh as they sometimes do.
As for the big reveal at the end, I found it a bit of a wet firecracker. That concept has been used so much that it would work for me fine in a short story, but less so as a thing to hang a whole book on. But, no biggie. I enjoyed every word of this one, especially the Terrible Sermon.
Currently reading Beware the Wild, by Natalie C. Parker, a YA novel about a girl whose brother gets lost in a haunted swamp.
I also just finished Revival yesterday and enjoyed it very much. Except for the penultimate “reveal” chapter.
The Terrible Sermon was great!
I’m going to start Ken Follett’s The Edge of Eternity tonight. I’ve loved this trilogy, and how it really brings history to life.
I finished The Slow Regard of Slilent Things and I enjoyed the book in the same way I enjoy Ray Bradbury’s stories, the imagery was gorgeous and the language beautiful and lyrical. And it being my first Rothfuss book, I went into it expecting nothing and so took away a shiny little glow inside.
Just finished Firefly: Still Flying, a great homage to the beloved but short-lived Joss Whedon sf TV show. Lots of interesting behind-the-scenes stuff, and four short-short stories inspired by the show. I think any Firefly fan would enjoy it.
Now nearing the end of P.D. James’s Children of Men, which is much different from the movie it inspired, but I like it.
I read this recently, too, and enjoyed it. I am not much of a mystery reader, but I liked the Cuckoo’s Calling so I picked the Silkworm up, too. It definitely kept me guessing. My one quibble is Robin and Matthew’s relationship. I thought the ratio of murder mystery to personal life was off, but I’m not sure how I would recommend fixing it. Maybe it’s that we see a fairly full picture of what Cormoran does when he’s not on the job, but with Robin we only see her relationship with Matthew. But really, that’s a fairly minor complaint.
I just finished You Should Have Known, by Jean Hanff Korelitz. This book is about a relationship therapist whose one marriage goes wildly off the rails. It’s a very psychological look at the effect of a long term marriage to a pretty bad guy and the turmoil associated with a really awful event. (Hard to summarize without too many spoilers!) It was an interesting read and I had a hard time putting it down, but it was oh so uncomfortable in spots!
I’m not sure what’s up next.
Yes, we get a much more narrow picture of Robin, who seems to spend most of her time worrying about what Matthew thinks about what she’s doing. I really liked the scene where Cormoran and Matthew meet for the first time.
I’ve been reading a lot of mysteries lately, and I prefer the ones that favor the personal lives over the puzzle. For me, the mystery plot just gives the characters something to do.
I started The Woman in White, and at 15% in, I’m underwhelmed. I like the Marian Halcombe character, even if she is severe upon her own sex, but otherwise the book is not grabbing me.
Finished The King of Torts, by John Grisham. A public defender in Washington is assigned a murder case. It appears to be just another typical street killing over a drug deal gone bad or due to gang animosity. But as the lawyer digs deeper, he discovers a bizarre conspiracy that eventually sees him taking on Big Pharm. This one was very enjoyable.
Next up? Dunno yet. I have to make a library run today.
Mmmmm, started Immortal in Death the third in J D Robb’s In Death series. It’s pseudo-SF and pretty potato chippy but it’s a nice way to wind down a really stressful year.
I think I hit somewhere around 30% today. Interesting that the pacing is so slow, and I didn’t realize the book was so long. The characterization is certainly unsubtle, especially the cranky bedridden uncle, the zany Italian dwarf, and the zany Italian comte. Marian seems to be a very-proto-feminist.
I’m waiting to be underwhelmed by the very telegraphed twist, which I spose I should spoil, although it’s really just a prediction at this point…
That Anne Catherick and the long-suffering Laura will/have switched places. As an identical twin, I find this upsettingly lazy plotting!
So, in what I probably shoiuld have done at the start of the international break rather than the end, I’m having a proper off the deep end into the football. I’ve mentioned a few times McIlvanney on Football, a collection of Hugh McIlvanney’s essays on the beautiful game. My attention was drawn when a Mancunian friend posted a snippet from one of his essays on boxing; the writing was quite remarkable and I was intrigued. As it happens, I suspect boxing gives more room for poetry, but McIlvanney remains an excellent writer. All of these essays are from the 70s through early 90s, so I don’t have first hand experience of the topics, but McIlvanney is ultimately as interested in the human drama and virtues of the game as he is in the athletic excellence. It’s good stuff.
Meanwhile, I’m also reading Manchester: The City Years, a history of my adopted Premier League side, Manchester City FC, from rather before it technically formed through to the League-winning season of 2011-2012. It’s quite interesting, and inevitably teaches me a little about the City of Manchester itself, not to mention the development of professional football in England and the UK.
I don’t know if I’m going to just plow through either of these; The City Years is quite long and McIlvanney is a collection of essays–not a format I traditionally do well with reading at a gulp. But they’ll keep me going before I dip back into The Expanse for the fourth and final-to-date of that series.
So I hit the library today and based on recommendations here checked out 11/22/63, by Stephen King. I have read the first few chapters and am hooked.
This is my second Stephen King. I read Dolores Claiborne 20 years ago, and while I found it to be an okay-enough story, I was not inspired to seek out more King even though I understood at the time that it was not one of his better works. (I think I’d picked it up at a used-book stall here in Bangkok, one that had a limited selection.) Already I can tell 11/22/63 is vastly superior to that other one.
I liked The Moonstone better, although it also has a plot twist that seems pretty corny by modern standards.
Siam Sam, I liked 11/22/63 very much, and later discussed it with two friends who are very conversant with Kennedy assassination lore. They both said it was very accurate (well, other than the time-travel aspect, of course).
I finished P.D. James’s Children of Men over the weekend and, as expected, the ending was very different from the movie. Lots of political stuff (the protagonist in the book, unlike in the movie, is a cousin of and former advisor to the kinda-benign British dictator, who plays a big role in the book but is absent from the movie) and a more muted, even puzzling finale.
Started Edmund Morris’s very good Colonel Roosevelt, about T.R. after his White House years - on African safari and Amazon boat trip, hobnobbing with European royalty on the eve of World War I, and making his ill-advised last run for the Presidency in 1912. I liked the earlier two books in the trilogy very much - The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt and Theodore Rex - and Morris is just as talented a storyteller and historian as before.
Picked up Losing in Gainesville, by Brian Costello. It’s a humorous novel set in the town where I live, so I thought that would be fun. It is a bit interesting just for the setting, but I’m not finding anything else about it to my liking, so I’m out.
I’m enjoying the hell out of it. Right now, the protagonist is in Derry. That’s a little uncomfortable, because it hits close to home. Feels like my old hometown. “Derry wasn’t right” he says at one point. I know just how he feels.
But just to mention, I picked up on an odd mistake that Stephen King made early on. Extremely minor, but it’s the sort of thing that stands out for me. When Al is giving Jake all the documents he’ll need for 1958 including a driver’s license, Jake remarks on the absence of a photo, and the conversation goes:
**“State of Maine’s years away on that, buddy. The other forty-eight, too.”
“Forty-eight?”
“Hawaii won’t be a state until next year.”**
Well, no, he means the other forty-seven. Alaska also won’t be a state until next year. Both entered the Union in 1959 – Alaska in January and Hawaii in August. A minor quibble, but a bit odd. Great story though.
Currently working on Chiral Mad, an anthology of short horror stories. All dreck so far, but I don’t like to start a new book just before the holiday, with the chance I won’t be able to pick it up again until Monday.
Went to the library Saturday and got a pile of books. Spent the weekend reading The Son, by Jo Nesbo (there’s a slash through the final O). A Norwegian crime story. I’m not usually into this type (think Stieg Larsson) but could not put this one down. Now I’m reading 10% Happier by Dan Harris. I’m just getting into meditation so this should be interesting, but for someone who is a national news reporter, this guy is boring and not a great writer. I’ll slog through though.
As I suspected, I needed a break from my football books, so I’ve went back to the ongoing Nero Wolfe project w/ The Black Mountain. An odd one–not in New York, the “mystery” is basically handed to Wolfe on a plate, Wolfe spends the novel climbing mountains and reporting conversations to Archie. Not bad, and interesting to see Wolfe’s birthplace, but probably my least favorite Wolfe novel so far.
Quite short even by Nero Wolfe standards, so I’m nearly done w/ it already; I’ll back back to the football after.