Because sometimes, I don’t have the words. And sometimes, what words I have are inadequate. And sometimes, I just want to keep on lying down, with a look of horror / loneliness / disappointment on my face, intent on just letting it all soak in. I like these books, for different reasons — the emotional turmoil I went through; the quiet despair that leeched into me at the book’s close the implicit trust I have for the author, no matter the flaws I find in the text.
I’ve made notes, though most of them are bewildered — either by the sheer genius of the work, or the let-down that I didn’t want it to be. The pages are littered with Post-It flags. And, well. I’ll keep them inside me for a little while longer. [Oh, you can ask questions -- In fact, I welcome them: that'll put some semblance of order to my frazzled nerves. Because I do want to talk about these books, but I don't really know where to start. Never mind the Hows of it. Anyway.] Here they are:
* * *
We Need to Talk About Kevin, by Lionel Shriver. Read 09 June.
The Easter Parade, by Richard Yates. Read 24 July.
The Sorrows of an American, by Siri Hustvedt. Read 18 August.
Reading begets reading:
- I have a copy of Hustvedt’s The Enchantment of Lily Dahl. The last unread Hustvedt on my shelves. I’m trying not to touch it, because I’ve run out of her books to read. Because I am poor. Amen.
- As with Hustvedt, I have one last Richard Yates novel in my possession: A Special Providence. I have decided to read all of his work [as with Hustvedt's too, actually]. I have a way to go, and a lot of books I still need to get hold of. But the more of his works I read, the more I’m excited to reread Revolutionary Road. Am I weird?
- I’ll most definitely reread Shriver’s The Post-Birthday World. [My first reading here.] [Have three copies of that book. Hm.] It has become relevant once again. Don’t judge me.