2002-12-16

I�m in a fantastic mood today (yes, it does happen), so I can�t get my groove on for the bitching action. Hmm � I can�t bitch when I�m cranky, I can�t bitch when I�m happy�it�s a delicate instrument, my groove is. I�m like a fragile, foul-mouthed hothouse flower.

So I�m going to talk about books. If this prospect bores the pants off you�come see me! No, just kidding. Rather, go watch E! Now, you illiterate fuck.

My self-imposed regimen of good behaviour has left me with a lot of unnervingly sober time on my hands, and I�ve managed to read something like six books in the last two weeks, leaving my brain cells rather disoriented at this sudden change of tactic in their regard.

The Colour of Memory, by Geoff Dyer

This book rules. I ordered it from Amazon on impulse based on this review (actually, consider this a plug for that website, too � Mr. Taylor is one hell of a writer and you should all go check him out right this instant; lord knows he�s more entertaining than I am), and I loved it. In spirit, it�s a bit like Colin MacInnes�s Absolute Beginners, but the prose is much funnier and doesn�t take itself quite as seriously, which is a plus for anyone who isn�t looking for yet more tedious Holden Caulfield-style angst. (Not that I didn�t enjoy Absolute Beginners, of course. It also rules.) The Colour of Memory is a semi-fictional memoir, as far as I can tell, about life in Brixton in the 80s during the riots. You can almost see the nostalgia coming off the page in waves, despite the distinctly unpleasant nature of some of the experiences described: among others, being mugged, fired (repeatedly), and beaten up by thugs. The writing is stylish and clever, and the descriptive passages are atmospheric and very evocative � Dyer uses detail well to ground the relatively aimless narrative. I plan to re-read this one before I pass it along.

Thirst for Love, by Yukio Mishima

I read this years and years ago, but I barely remembered it (as I recall, an English major and would-be suitor was trying to impress sixteen-year-old me, and recommended Mishima � I think he tried to get me to read Confessions of a Mask as well, but I lost interest after one book � in his romantic overtures, that is, not in Mishima. Heh). A friend of mine gave me a stack of books a few months ago, and I just noticed Thirst for Love among them last week, so I picked it up. Anyway. Mishima. What can you say about a guy who cut his own guts out as some sort of artistic statement? Reading Mishima leaves you feeling like you�ve been subjected to the emotional equivalent of evisceration. Thirst for Love is the story of a recently-widowed woman who goes to live with her father-in-law on a farm in the country, and after becoming his mistress for the sake of status and security within the household, becomes desperately infatuated with a servant, who of course remains blithely oblivious to her feelings. The book captures emotional isolation to a degree that�s almost uncomfortable to read � the protagonist is even emotionally isolated from herself, acting almost completely on instinct and happy only when she is able to momentarily rid her mind of thought, memory and reflection. To sum up: Those wacky Japanese!

The Underpainter, by Jane Urquhart

Canadian lit plug! This book won the Governor General�s award or something. It�s good. It�s one of those fashionable back-and-forth-in-time, first-person life stories; in this case narrated by an elderly painter. Urquhart tells his story in bits and pieces, bringing together different themes and narrative threads. She�s a damn good descriptive writer � she started her career as a poet, and it shows. What interested me about this book is that she writes like a painter. She describes the process of painting as though she�s done it herself (I have some authority there), and more than that, she creates visual images that feel like paintings. It makes me wonder if she does paint, or if she just really did her homework. She also nails the art-speak of the early 20th century, when modernism was fresh and exciting and political. Anyway, I enjoyed it, although I found that the dialogue occasionally became a bit affected: I could tell certain passages were there specifically to flesh out the character development, and it sometimes came at the expense of credibility.

Northanger Abbey, by Jane Austen

What can I say about Jane Austen that hasn�t been said to death? I read this in one sitting, and it delivered a good satisfying fix of nineteenth-century comedy-of-manners romance, which is just what I was looking for on a Sunday afternoon. It�s Austen�s first novel, and it�s a tad less critical than her later stuff, but it�s still clever and dry and satirical without being mean-spirited. So, pretty much�Austen. The allegorical references to Radclyffe got a bit laboured, though.

Nightwood, by Djuna Barnes

I only just started this, so I don�t have much to say. It looks like it�s going to be some whacked-out shit. The prose is that sort that�s meant to evoke more than directly describe, like narrative free-form poetry. The introduction was written by T. S. Eliot, so there you go.