I’m another one who’s always in the middle of a half dozen books to suit my mood.
Non-fiction:
Empire, a history of the British Empire by Niall Ferguson.
D-Day, by the always excellent Stephen Ambrose.
Robert E. Lee, Roy Blount’s entry in the extremely fine series of Penguin Lives mini-biographies.
1919, by William Klingaman, which I’m reading for a larger perspective on the world to accompany Margaret Macmillan’s Paris 1919, about how the Peace Conference after World War I shaped the world and influenced World War II.
Fiction:
Midnight’s Children, the Booker Prize winning novel by Salman Rushdie.
The new T. Coraghessan Boyle novel, Drop City.
Finished yesterday:
My Anecdotal Life, just like it sounds, by Carl Reiner. Tried reading his collection of short stories, but they were too jokey and inconsequential.
Hollywood Mystery (I Hate Actors), by Ben Hecht. A real find. Hecht was the famed newspaperman, film writer and novelist who was huge in the 30s, though not well-known today. As the title indicates, this is a true mystery, but really a vicious satire on Hollywood - the mystery is secondary. It’s as cynical as anything put out by Fitzgerald or West on Hollywood (one actor is put on a seven-day bender to keep him away from the set and another is sedated with heavy doses of drugs to make him tractable), but much lighter. I didn’t even know it existed, and I found it as a Bart House paperback, with the altered title.
AuntiePam, what do you think of the McSweeney’s anthology? I was very disappointed with it.