I am down with some relatively minor digestive woes that combined with the extreme sleepiness I'm feeling lend me to believe it to be viral in nature. That and the fact that no one else is down - thank goodness -
I am lying in bed and on the shelf across from me I can see two books. Well, rather more than two books, but two books in particular have gotten me thinking.
One is by Orhan Pamuk. Ya know? He's a really acclaimed writer, I'm pretty sure he's won some prizes and everything, I see his books in lots of stores, and translated, but ya know what? I don't know ANYONE who likes them. Dull, dreary and heavy-handed. It is like we are reading them because the various institutions have deemed them to have literary merit, but know what? I think that emperor has no clothes and the books suck. Correct me if you think I'm wrong, I am dying with curiosity to discover anyone who liked them.
The other is called 'The Art of the Personal Essay' by Phillip Lopate. The man, or his publisher, is lying. There is nothing in the book about the art of the personal essay. The title should be, 'A chronological anthology of the personal essay with an introduction by the anthologist ' that would have been accurate. Not what I was aiming for when I purchased the book, indeed I would not have purchased a book by that title, but at this point I feel lied to. There wasn't even an effort to put the essays into thematic sections. Nope. Chronological. How dull can it be. I doubt I will ever read it, such is my disappointment.
On another, and perversely depressing note, while searching for the job title of a person who assembles an anthology, I went to the ever reliable Norton Anthology site, and know what? They have audio recordings of some bits and pieces of the works! COOL! Though I find this perversely depressing because I realise that I am slamming two paper books and singing the praises of an online site.