one hundred seventy eight

Finished Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami–pictured above–yesterday, which was quite fantastic, especially once you hit near that three hundred page mark. The first three hundred are quite good, but they’re not special in that way that can change you, but the last one hundred seventy are, and they only can be because of those first three hundred. It hits that wondrous kind kind of reality bending material that my life is made of.

Been reading a lot of long books this summer, all but one of them’ve been over five hundred pages. Speaking of switch, picked up The Tunnel by William H Gass today, which is utter madness. Truly. It’s not a story about madness, like how The Savage Detectives is about madness, but it is just purely madness. His prose has the fiery passion and cadence of the best passages of Celine, while being as lyrical as Woolf or Joyce, and has the energy of Rushdie, but, rather than being ecstatic, it’s maniacal, crashing out of the bowels of hell. Speaking of Celine, it’s like that, just bitter, angry, such demonic energy spewing forth with mountains of spite. And the book’s not about madness, but it is it. No story has emerged inside of it, but i’m utterly hooked, like the way Dostoevsky hooks you in Notes from the Underground.

Looking to get a Kindle for about a million reasons and am pretty excited to get one, but i’m going to wait till i finish some of these books i have lying around.

And, of course, i got some more books today. Two by Joshua Cohen, who i think i mentioned once before, but i’ve yet to read any of him, though he looks so promising i can barely even breathe. Also, Jose Cortazar’s most famous novel, Hopscotch. I’ll report on them when i get round to reading them.

Been doing more reading than film watching lately, but i still sneak them in.

Feeling better of late. Books can do that. Cure you.