2001-01-22 - Night
Books I�m reading currently:
* Orwell: Wintry Conscience of a Generation, by Jeffrey Meyers. Wow. I had no idea George Orwell slept with so many women. I�ve always seen a lot of myself in him--I�m a writer, I�m cranky, my politics tend to the left (by circa-2000 U.S. standards, anyway) but I also think most leftists need a good kicking, and my nightmares are full of images of civilization going up in flames and boots stomping on human faces forever ... so how come I haven't gotten as much trim?
* Exile�s Return, by Malcolm Cowley. One of the best (and least well-known) Lost Generation writers picks apart the whole bohemian art-lit scene in Greenwich Village and Paris in the 1920s. As distressed as I am by the fact that we�ve elected Warren Harding President again, I can�t resist a good, snarky dissection of boho pretense either. If Cowley were alive today and leafed through a copy of the Utne Reader he�d be throwing it across the room after 30 seconds just as I�ve been known to do.
* Declare, by Tim Powers. His latest. I haven�t actually started reading this one yet--I just bought it yesterday. But he�s been one of my favorite science-fiction authors ever since I picked up a copy of The Anubis Gates last year. His books start out all over the place, with creepy vignettes and descriptions that lap themselves and odd threads of plot that just sort of dangle there, and then just when you�ve about decided that you�ll never figure out what the fuck is going on and are about to give up, one of those threads whips out and grabs you by the neck and holds you there until you either finish the book or pass out, whichever comes first. I always get freaky dreams after reading him, too.
I tend to read in binges--I�ll rip through two, three, four books at a time over the course of a few weeks and then read nothing substantial for months afterward. Part of my problem is that I like books where things happen--which pretty much rules out most "literary" fiction and leaves me stuck with nonfiction and genre stuff. Every so often, more out of obligation than anything else, I�ll go into a used bookstore, pick up whatever piece of "literary" shit was on the bestseller lists last year, get bored a third of the way through and add it to my ever-growing stack of books I�ll never finish but am too lazy to sell back. Just call me the Anti-Oprah.
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