Books I've read. Books that have had an impact on me. Books that didn't, but that many believe should have.
Showing posts with label Reading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reading. Show all posts
Sunday, 10 June 2018
Auto da Fé - Elias Canetti
Rarely has a book with such an impressive opening chapter revealed itself to be so challenging to read (though moving to our new flat didn't make the process any simpler I must admit!). And I don't mean a pleasant challenge, I just mean long, repetitive, and to be honest quite dated (in particular with the few traces of humour).
I was surprised to see the book in the Shaw Library, less surprised when I saw that it hadn't been checked out since since the 1970s (no kidding) as I'm not quite sure how many people in the UK even know of Canetti's existence.
The main character's interactions with his young neighbour at the start had me really excited, and up until his marriage proposal I was finding the book quite exciting. After that, however, it just kept on going on and on in a story that could have been told just as effectively (actually, probably more effectively) in 200 pages less. I understand the allegoric madness and book burning in the conclusion, but even that was rather obvious and predictable.
Sunday, 13 September 2015
The Uncommon Reader – Alan Bennett
Probably my favourite book by Alan Bennett. The
market is saturated with 90-page novellas that are meant to make readers laugh.
This one didn’t make me laugh, but it did make me smile – and that’s probably a
much greater accomplishment.
An even greater accomplishment is that, despite
the fact that the monarch portrayed has probably got very little to do with the
actual Elizabeth II, Bennett actually made me like the Queen a lot more
(something that, at the London Olympics, also James Bond managed to do). I
mean, who wouldn’t like to have a Head of State who sneaks out to read Dickens
and Hardy (and Proust too, but why? Why? Why should anyone do that to
him/herself?!?)
I wish there was someone in Italy capable of
producing something this enjoyable. I’m not saying a masterpiece (this book is
lovely, but it isn’t one), but something so delicate. Unfortunately, most Italian
writers have spent their last 20 years copying themselves (at best) or
failing to reinvent the wheel (at worst).
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