mo' uses of literature
An unwelcome intrusion upon our premises has come to its inexorable conclusion, due to an overbearing taste for literary matter.
In addition to an overflow of reading material, the cellar had harbored a number of crickets; these began to diminish as autumn ended, which we put down to seasonal effects, until a couple of weeks ago, when I went downstairs to find the dustcovers and bindings of many books in shreds. It was then clear that, the supply of crickets exhausted, our heretofore undetected house mouse had turned to literary nourishment. Disdaining paperbacks, he had sampled a number of works, finding some not so much to his taste (Steven Pinker, John Allen Paulos, Teachout's The Skeptic, Doug Adams, Kharms, Saramago, Eco, Grushin, and some old Latin & German primers), and others worthy of deeper attention (books on the Civil War and Lorenzo the Magnificent, Robbe-Grillet/Magritte's The Fair Captive, Urban's The Man Who Broke Napoleon's Codes) -- but his tastes were betrayed by those tomes he absolutely devoured, cover to cover:
Faulkner, Light In August
Koestler, Darkness at Noon (a penchant for Everyman's evident here so far)
Martin Gardner, The Night is Large
Burgess, Earthly Powers
Nabokov, King, Queen, Knave
Ron Chernow, The House of Morgan
Christine Stansell, American Moderns
Lyndall Gordon, A Private Life of Henry James
Sholom Aleichem, Tevye's Daughter
Over all, not one for translations. His library privileges have now been revoked, along with residency.
Meanwhile, books that have been keeping me occupied:
Robert Walser, The Assistant (trans SBernofsky) not to my tastes
Gabriel Josipovici, Goldberg: Variations yum! I must find more of GJ
Claude Simon, The Flanders Road (trans RHoward) ... and more of CS (via RH).
Currently in Saramago's The Gospel According to Jesus Christ (trans GPontiero), going slowly, moreso than ordinary, as it seems to be a rereading from many years ago, though it being an oft-told tale, I could be mistaken.
In addition to an overflow of reading material, the cellar had harbored a number of crickets; these began to diminish as autumn ended, which we put down to seasonal effects, until a couple of weeks ago, when I went downstairs to find the dustcovers and bindings of many books in shreds. It was then clear that, the supply of crickets exhausted, our heretofore undetected house mouse had turned to literary nourishment. Disdaining paperbacks, he had sampled a number of works, finding some not so much to his taste (Steven Pinker, John Allen Paulos, Teachout's The Skeptic, Doug Adams, Kharms, Saramago, Eco, Grushin, and some old Latin & German primers), and others worthy of deeper attention (books on the Civil War and Lorenzo the Magnificent, Robbe-Grillet/Magritte's The Fair Captive, Urban's The Man Who Broke Napoleon's Codes) -- but his tastes were betrayed by those tomes he absolutely devoured, cover to cover:
Faulkner, Light In August
Koestler, Darkness at Noon (a penchant for Everyman's evident here so far)
Martin Gardner, The Night is Large
Burgess, Earthly Powers
Nabokov, King, Queen, Knave
Ron Chernow, The House of Morgan
Christine Stansell, American Moderns
Lyndall Gordon, A Private Life of Henry James
Sholom Aleichem, Tevye's Daughter
Over all, not one for translations. His library privileges have now been revoked, along with residency.
Meanwhile, books that have been keeping me occupied:
Robert Walser, The Assistant (trans SBernofsky) not to my tastes
Gabriel Josipovici, Goldberg: Variations yum! I must find more of GJ
Claude Simon, The Flanders Road (trans RHoward) ... and more of CS (via RH).
Currently in Saramago's The Gospel According to Jesus Christ (trans GPontiero), going slowly, moreso than ordinary, as it seems to be a rereading from many years ago, though it being an oft-told tale, I could be mistaken.
posted by nnyhav | 21:55
4 Comments:
I assume the mouse left your collection of"The New Yorker" magazines from the Tina Brown years untouched or as a mouse version of an outhouse.
I never much enjoyed eating books. A bit too bland for my taste and liable to cause constipation. Crickets, on the other hand, are appetising delicacy eaten raw with green shoots.
JAbel, the only such collection of any magazines is rubbish collection (I'm not a book collector, but the books collect). And, GB, it's them bindings what does it, what's between them covers, even when of the first water, passes too quickly (via improprieties).
Faulkner, Light In August
Ah cared not for it. Dismally dark shadow-sketches, done in that swirly syntax. Exhausting and odd. Joe Xmas: eh. Another populist anti-hero. At least "As I lay whining" shorter and a bit more graphic.......but still grotesque and strange...........
Bill F. could paint a nocturnal scene: alas he couldn't tell a decent joke.
Crane's the Open Boat: c'est Le Lit de Yanqui.
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