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Books
Remember these? I started reading again when I stopped having a home Internet connection for a while.
The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway.
I liked this good little story. It took a few pages to get going, but once the old man was fishing I became engrossed. Man plus fish definitely equals book.
Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley.
This was OK. It's one of those things that you admire in that patronising way because it was written in 1931, even though people in those ancient times already had colour photography and knew a bit about quantum mechanics. Quick and easy read, but meh.
One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez.
I first learned that magical realism was stupid in year 12, when, as the 'world literature' component of English, we read three books by Latin American authors. Like Water for Chocolate was completely ridiculous, involving someone making a patchwork quilt that covered acres, someone crying and it literally becoming a river, and so forth. The House of Spirits was better but it was still stupid to have levitating people, a dead woman with green hair, seances, etc. No-one Writes to the Colonel was by far the best of the three works, and (not coincidentally) contained by far the least magic - only one magical event, according to Wikipedia.
Chris the Blogger, however, was ignorant of the popularity and acclaim of Isabel Allende, and said that I should read a major work by either Rushdie or Márquez before trashing magical realism. So it was that I picked up this book, which (as I recall) also came with a recommendation from dubaiwalla.
Magical realism is still stupid. There are good elements in this book. I quite liked the repetitive nature of the "when facing the firing squad", the well-crafted jumps back and forth in the timeline. Flying carpets, talking to dead people, someone rising up to heaven, prophecies.... All stupid.
Literature had worked its way to its realist pinnacle, and then some South Americans went and spoiled it with magic. That wouldn't be so bad if no-one cared, but far too many people actually like the stuff and hold it up as good literature.
The Life & Times of Michael K, by JM Coetzee. (It's been a long time since I finished this, so these are old memories.) This was more of a struggle than Coetzee's more recent work, and while the story has remained well-imprinted in my brain, I don't look back on many passages and think of them as being enjoyable to read.
Boyhood, by JM Coetzee. This is a series of (semi-?)autobiographical vignettes from when Coetzee was growing up in South Africa. Stories about children are hard to make very good, and it is certainly not up to the quality of Youth. But it was still enjoyable.
The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway.
I liked this good little story. It took a few pages to get going, but once the old man was fishing I became engrossed. Man plus fish definitely equals book.
Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley.
This was OK. It's one of those things that you admire in that patronising way because it was written in 1931, even though people in those ancient times already had colour photography and knew a bit about quantum mechanics. Quick and easy read, but meh.
One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez.
I first learned that magical realism was stupid in year 12, when, as the 'world literature' component of English, we read three books by Latin American authors. Like Water for Chocolate was completely ridiculous, involving someone making a patchwork quilt that covered acres, someone crying and it literally becoming a river, and so forth. The House of Spirits was better but it was still stupid to have levitating people, a dead woman with green hair, seances, etc. No-one Writes to the Colonel was by far the best of the three works, and (not coincidentally) contained by far the least magic - only one magical event, according to Wikipedia.
Chris the Blogger, however, was ignorant of the popularity and acclaim of Isabel Allende, and said that I should read a major work by either Rushdie or Márquez before trashing magical realism. So it was that I picked up this book, which (as I recall) also came with a recommendation from dubaiwalla.
Magical realism is still stupid. There are good elements in this book. I quite liked the repetitive nature of the "when facing the firing squad", the well-crafted jumps back and forth in the timeline. Flying carpets, talking to dead people, someone rising up to heaven, prophecies.... All stupid.
Literature had worked its way to its realist pinnacle, and then some South Americans went and spoiled it with magic. That wouldn't be so bad if no-one cared, but far too many people actually like the stuff and hold it up as good literature.
The Life & Times of Michael K, by JM Coetzee. (It's been a long time since I finished this, so these are old memories.) This was more of a struggle than Coetzee's more recent work, and while the story has remained well-imprinted in my brain, I don't look back on many passages and think of them as being enjoyable to read.
Boyhood, by JM Coetzee. This is a series of (semi-?)autobiographical vignettes from when Coetzee was growing up in South Africa. Stories about children are hard to make very good, and it is certainly not up to the quality of Youth. But it was still enjoyable.