Book Forty: The Sweet Life in Paris by David Lebovitz
Guys, I'm terrible. I've been sitting on this review for about two weeks (Plus a review on a book I read in... July? August?) Honestly I have no excuse, I feel like I should be super excited to finally crack into the 40 category, but I'm mostly just burned out. Burned out to the max, as in, "How the eff am I ever going to finish 14 more books in the next month?" When I look at my first fourteen, I didn't get through that magic number until April! Month four of the year! And I only have two months left! That means I have to start reading at double speeds from here on out.
Fortunately, I visited a close friend last night and she loaded me down with about five books. She just recently completed her first marathon and I'm convinced she's still in marathon mode. "You're so close! You can do it! Here read all these!" And we pilfered her shelves. It was great. She's right, I'm already three quarters of the way through The Hunger Games and this weekend I'm going to a talk by Jonathan Franzen (which I'm absurdly excited for, considering I totally love to hate his books) and I'm buoyed by M's positivity and belief in me. I can do it, and I will do it, and I have long commutes now that I started taking the CTA in the morning, so it can be done!!
One of the things that slowed me down was The Sweet Life in Paris, surprisingly. I love all things Paris: it was the subject one of the first books I read the year and I more recently tore through a fictional account of Hemingway's Paris, but this book was rather slow. I felt that the stories were humorous but not humorous enough to make me laugh out loud, which I guess isn't very french-like, but laughing out loud would have been nice after Still Alice. The book is just a bunch of vignettes (more like blog posts that chronicle the life of David Lebowitz, renowned chef, as he adjusts to life in Paris. It's entertaining, sure, but it also seems a little contrived and a little too perfect. He seems to be playing to a certain audience, but I can't tell which. The funniest parts were small and insignificant, and I think he tried too hard to show the absurdity of French life when really the absurdity would be best understated and not overblown.
In short, the book felt a bit like an American talking about how stupid other Americans are, but in a wholly American, obnoxious way... if that makes sense. If it doesn't, I'm sorry, it's Friday and I want to get my weekend started. I'll probably finish The Hunger Games tonight. Be on the lookout!
