Despite having recently read and reviewed two of the three top books on the New York Times best seller list – And The Mountains Echoed and The Ocean at the End of the Lane, I haven’t lost myself in a good book in quite a while. A good friend echoed my sentiments when she recently wrote to me – “I’d love to fall in love with a new book or an author.”
Although I’ve tried, many books have not kept my attention past the first chapters and I’ve found a reason to stop reading what could have been compelling in another mood: John La Carre’s A Delicate Truth – a spy thriller that will probably become a movie; Sally Gardner’s Maggot Moon – young adult modern dystopia with a dyslexic hero; William Nicholson’s Motherland – World War II love story, and Marisa de los Santos’s romance novel Love Walked In.
The pile of books by British authors (new to me) keeps growing on my shelf, but I haven’t found a Jane Gardam compelling story among them yet:
- Edwyn St. Albyn: At Last and all the preceeding Patrick Melrose novels
- Barbara Pym: Jane and Prudence, A Glass of Blessings, Quartet in Autumn
James McWilliams essay in the New York Times Book Review – Clunkers – suggests another use for the overwrought reader with a pile of books – just throw them. The satisfaction of a page well bent might antagonize those who cannot even bear a bent-over page marker, but his historical evidence offers cases of “literary projectiles” as both dangerous and beneficial. Of course, throwing a Kindle would not have the same effect.
I hear Anita Shreve has a new book coming out soon; maybe she will save me.