Show Me the Orange Awnings of Southern Summers
I ordered Nabokov's The Original of Laura on Sunday, and can't wait to open it. (If someone doesn't yet know, I'm a 'Nabokovian', sworn on pain of death). He is, I've reasoned, my adult Roald Dahl: articulate, wry, dark. My brother wasn't as taken by him, but we both gleefully read the passage where George gets rid of his grandmother to ours. Hold my hand, I just found an interview in Norwegian about his. Fan glee! The most charming broken Norwegian I have heard, a bit archaic. He has obviously forgotten a lot. But he speaks Norwegian! With a very peculiar accent, a mix of some Norwegian dialect I presume his mother had, and an English accent. 'Og så har jeg this tray in my lap', he is adorably bad!
One of Norway's current literary personas, one of the very few that are talked about abroad*, Dag Solstad apparently hangs out at 'Litteraturhuset' (newly built centre for literature, debates and liberal amounts of bullshit). Contemplating finding a first edition and harassing him into signing it. I don't like the man or his writings, but it could be worth something if it remains unread. Should I?
At some point last week I decided to let all serious books have some time off, and read leisurely:
Ian McEwan's Amsterdam was something of a disappointment. It reminded me slightly of Iris Murdoch's The Sea, The Sea, with which I have a rocky relationship. The reviews I've seen complain about the plot, which is reasonable enough. Though the plot is not the point here, as with so much of the fiction I read: it is the characters, the conversations, ideas, the craftsmanship. It is well-written, not quite to the standard of Atonement, but good. Very much a 'booker prize novel'.
I picked up The Rights of Desire, André Brink, on withered_petals's recommendation, I think. Am I totally off with the name? A response to Coetzee's Disgrace, one of my favourite books. It's explicitly referenced, and alluded to throughout: I think of it as Brink's post-colonial vision, a reshaping of Coetzee's. The same relationship of middle-aged, bookish man and young, captivating girl. The story is interesting enough, but Brink does not quite get under the skin of his protagonist. And I don't think the distance was intentional.
While it is an interesting book, it did not sweep me off my feet like Disgrace did. There's something about it that puts me off. I'd love to write about it in an academic capacity, perhaps alongside Lolita as well as Disgrace. Or compare their post-colonial projects. I want to write a third book, alluding to both of theirs. But that's it. Oh, I did love the allusions. Very modernist, and absolutely lovely. There was one to Prufrock, 'time to wear my trousers rolled'.
* All Norwegians have a thing for the world outside: we speak of it with almost the same reverence afforded our GPs.
One of Norway's current literary personas, one of the very few that are talked about abroad*, Dag Solstad apparently hangs out at 'Litteraturhuset' (newly built centre for literature, debates and liberal amounts of bullshit). Contemplating finding a first edition and harassing him into signing it. I don't like the man or his writings, but it could be worth something if it remains unread. Should I?
At some point last week I decided to let all serious books have some time off, and read leisurely:
Ian McEwan's Amsterdam was something of a disappointment. It reminded me slightly of Iris Murdoch's The Sea, The Sea, with which I have a rocky relationship. The reviews I've seen complain about the plot, which is reasonable enough. Though the plot is not the point here, as with so much of the fiction I read: it is the characters, the conversations, ideas, the craftsmanship. It is well-written, not quite to the standard of Atonement, but good. Very much a 'booker prize novel'.
I picked up The Rights of Desire, André Brink, on withered_petals's recommendation, I think. Am I totally off with the name? A response to Coetzee's Disgrace, one of my favourite books. It's explicitly referenced, and alluded to throughout: I think of it as Brink's post-colonial vision, a reshaping of Coetzee's. The same relationship of middle-aged, bookish man and young, captivating girl. The story is interesting enough, but Brink does not quite get under the skin of his protagonist. And I don't think the distance was intentional.
While it is an interesting book, it did not sweep me off my feet like Disgrace did. There's something about it that puts me off. I'd love to write about it in an academic capacity, perhaps alongside Lolita as well as Disgrace. Or compare their post-colonial projects. I want to write a third book, alluding to both of theirs. But that's it. Oh, I did love the allusions. Very modernist, and absolutely lovely. There was one to Prufrock, 'time to wear my trousers rolled'.
* All Norwegians have a thing for the world outside: we speak of it with almost the same reverence afforded our GPs.