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Am having one of my Christmas marathon reads, aided by minimal hours at work and much phthisic languishments on sofas still. But because I'm a visual reader my mind is the most unholy stew of fragments and moods in consequence. Moods partly because I read Gene Wolfe's There are Doors in a day or so, where the narrator's dreams and his reality have exactly the same flavour, and the flavour is 'Something's happening here and you don't know what it is, do you, Mr Jones?' When you live alone and have minimal social contact with other people, it's as well to keep that kind of book balanced by more mundane stuff, or your own reality starts looking iffy. Thus I finished Point of Dreams finally, sad that the glimpse of Ruling Women wasn't quite as I'd remembered it, and Castle Rouge to have it finished, irked by CofE Englishwomen who call themselves Episcopalian and writers who don't know the difference between ravaged and ravished.
Oh, and PoD does a Hammett. Someone shoots at Lord Whatsisface and they forgot to tell us who it was.
Also started a Patricia McKillip from the pile, probably ill-advised as well, but there was this post that had me all Ahh naruhodo over her. I tromped out yesterday in the rain to Doug Miller Books, my favourite used bookstore, to see if they have any more of hers. (Buying books, you remember, is one of my great joys.) They didn't, but they had a sale on-- 20% off two books, 30% off three-- so I grabbed a couple of Wolfe's Torturer books, certain that I had one of them but couldn't recall which, and Murakami's Underground, because I was there when it happened and wonder how it looked to the Japanese who were there too.
Took them to the cash, Miller says, 'Ah, we just got that Murakami in this morning," as he did when I copped Wind-up Bird; my Murakami karma is good at that place. 'You saw we have his new one?' My heart sank with foreboding. No, I hadn't seen: it was in the window. And yes, I'd been half-hoping someone had the translation second hand and half hoping they didn't, for obvious reasons. Since 1Q84 is apparently released in several volumes, I had to check: but yeah, it's the one I have, and even heavier than in Japanese. Could wait a year for the paperback, but the paperback would be far more than the $20 plus discount Miller charged me. So I bought it, and maybe if I make it through the Japanese I'll even read it. Am still hoping for Kafka's heights, not Sheep's randomosity.
And I have neither of the Torturer, so go me.
Oh, and PoD does a Hammett. Someone shoots at Lord Whatsisface and they forgot to tell us who it was.
Also started a Patricia McKillip from the pile, probably ill-advised as well, but there was this post that had me all Ahh naruhodo over her. I tromped out yesterday in the rain to Doug Miller Books, my favourite used bookstore, to see if they have any more of hers. (Buying books, you remember, is one of my great joys.) They didn't, but they had a sale on-- 20% off two books, 30% off three-- so I grabbed a couple of Wolfe's Torturer books, certain that I had one of them but couldn't recall which, and Murakami's Underground, because I was there when it happened and wonder how it looked to the Japanese who were there too.
Took them to the cash, Miller says, 'Ah, we just got that Murakami in this morning," as he did when I copped Wind-up Bird; my Murakami karma is good at that place. 'You saw we have his new one?' My heart sank with foreboding. No, I hadn't seen: it was in the window. And yes, I'd been half-hoping someone had the translation second hand and half hoping they didn't, for obvious reasons. Since 1Q84 is apparently released in several volumes, I had to check: but yeah, it's the one I have, and even heavier than in Japanese. Could wait a year for the paperback, but the paperback would be far more than the $20 plus discount Miller charged me. So I bought it, and maybe if I make it through the Japanese I'll even read it. Am still hoping for Kafka's heights, not Sheep's randomosity.
And I have neither of the Torturer, so go me.