I put Cosmopolis down in a paroxysm of boredom. It started reading like a terse and uninspired DeLillo imitation. I suspect I’m not in the right mood for his sort of prose right now.
The Wife just finished War is a Force that Gives Us Meaning by Chris Hedges, and pushed it emphatically into my hands. It is not, I understand, light bedtime reading but it has been moved to the top of the teetering pile of Books To Be Read.
What else comprises this tower of babble? A partial list of books I Really Ought To Get Around To is:
- The Rings of Saturn, WG Sebald
- ABC of Reading, Ezra Pound
- Pieces of Payne, Albert Goldbarth
- A Scanner Darkly, Phillip K. Dick
- Dhalgren, Samuel R. Delany
- The Meme Machine, Susan Blackmore
- Metaphors We Live By, Lakoff & Johnson
- Homo Ludens, Johan Huizinga
- The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard
I had already started these last three (Huizinga three years ago, Bachelard two years ago, Lakoff earlier this summer), but set them down at various points. They are not the sorts of books you do this to; I must start them again at the beginnings, as if I’d never read them. It is an annoying habit of mine, but alas I am incorrigible. As long as there is more than one good book in the universe, I will find myself distracted.
And of course, since we’re only nine short months away from the centenary Bloomsday, I imagine Ulysses will find its way onto the list soon. Having only read it three times (once more than the ponderous Gravity’s Rainbow), I suspect this will be exactly the excuse I need to lumber through it again.