Laura

FUN! Also cute and charming.

Enjoyed the majority of the pieces, especially the poems but also “Building the House”, “Some Thoughts on Whitman”, and “Swoon” but the book as a whole didn't feel cohesive.

Some wonderful passages but not a great novel on the whole. The last quarter was thrilling. Makes my training seem like napping with cuddly kittens under starlight and rainbows made of marshmallows and cotton candy.

Helpful for a beginner runner. I've been reading a lot about running, most of it online, and this book takes a sensible and fun approach – not a hardcore, athletic, faster-faster-faster approach. The focus is on enjoying running for the fun of it and staying healthy and injury-free.

I teared up reading some of the testimonials – something about the strength that people manage to find within themselves to run and the unconditional support of the crowd and other runners gets me all emotional. Planning to run my first race in a week, and I'll be surprised if I don't cry.

Listened to this on my runs/walks in early prep for a 10k in March. It works because I can miss a lot over the audio cues from Runkeeper and trying to breathe properly and not run into people, and still not miss anything important.

“You think the world only begins to exist when you start writing. You, a man who doesn't want to write – for I assume that someone who hasn't written for so long doesn't really want to write – you believe in this much more than I do. For if the world only begins to exist when you write, you really mean that you only begin to exist when you write. And that means ... that you keep having to decide over and over again whether you want to exist or not. It is not the reality of your characters that you doubt, but your own. If you can invent someone, someone may have invented you.”

Borrowed some Gordon Korman books from my mom's basement in a fit of nostalgia. Still hilarious.

‰ЫПWhat is the point. That is what must be borne in mind. Sometimes the point is really who wants what. Sometimes the point is what is right or kind. Sometimes the point is a momentum, a fact, a quality, a voice, an intimation, a thing said or unsaid. Sometimes it‰ЫЄs who‰ЫЄs at fault, or what will happen if you do not move at once. The point changes and goes out. You cannot be forever watching for the point, or you lose the simplest thing: being a major character in your own life. ... The point has never quite been entrusted to me.‰Ыќ

—

‰ЫП'You can‰ЫЄt miss it' always means you‰ЫЄre never going to find it. The shortest distance between two points may well be the wrong way on a one way street. All the same, all the same, I think there‰ЫЄs something to be said for assuring the next that the water‰ЫЄs fine‰ЫУquite warm, actually‰ЫУonce you get into it. You can‰ЫЄt miss it. It could be that the sort of sentence one wants right here is the kind that runs, and laughs, and slides, and stops right on a dime.‰Ыќ

I went on a splurge looking for authors similar to Barbara Pym, and when I started this book I was at the point where I thought maybe I should stop, but no need! I really enjoyed all the cozy pleasantness this book had to offer (and all the idyllic settings – the house in Ibiza, the seaside home and artist‰ЫЄs studio, the English village, the modern but cozy flat). But those looking for a Pym replica will be disappointed – Rosamunde Pilcher doesn‰ЫЄt have the same wit and clarity. Where Pym is sharp and pithy, Pilcher is sentimental and soft-focus (and I‰ЫЄm not just talking about the Hallmark Hall of Fame adaptation, which I should have known better than to watch, because 1980s, Angela Lansbury, obviously).

Pilcher simplistically divides her characters into ‰Ычgood‰ЫЄ and ‰Ычbad‰ЫЄ categories. The bad people are greedy and obsessive and exploitative and unpleasant; the good people are happy with their lots and are generous to their loved ones and get along with everyone and cherish life‰ЫЄs simple pleasures and are so reasonable about everything. This book mostly has good people in it, with two or three villains to give the main character something to fight against. This is different from the other similar-to-Pym books I‰ЫЄve read recently (Elizabeth Taylor, Molly Keane, Penelope Fitzgerald), where although charm and beauty may not abound in the same way, the characters are more subtle and complex, mixed with character traits, choices, and actions which are not simply labelled good or bad. Pym recognizes the ridiculous and contrary and terrible in people while treating them with compassion and respect. But Pilcher dumbs it down. Nancy and Noel are desperate for money, make bad choices, and are unhappy, while Penelope and Olivia and most of the rest of the cast stand superior and righteous against them.

There are so many things that were just so lovely about this book, but I couldn‰ЫЄt get behind the characters. And yet, four stars – because I enjoyed reading it so much.

The library only had this book in large print, and to be honest it was kind of annoying to have to go back to regular print books afterward. Damn my eyes! I am not old yet.

I was ready not to understand any of this and to be bored but feel obliged to finish it, but no! It was fun actually. The tone was well balanced, managing the paradoxes that W. and Lars puzzle over – simultaneously hopeless and hopeful, feeling that your life is the worst but knowing that yours is so much better than others, being happy and miserable at the same time. The damp apartment was one of my favourite parts (in spite of being super gross), and it was better executed than I was expecting. I was relieved when Lars started including his own speech about halfway through the book, because I had started to wonder whether the narrator actually existed and if it was just W. writing about himself as someone else. (Still not entirely outside the realm of possibility.) I will definitely be moving on to Iyer‰ЫЄs follow-ups.

I read this book when I was ‰Ычwriting‰ЫЄ (i.e. not writing and instead thinking too much about) a piece that shared some traits with this book, and instead of feeling like throwing in the towel, I was actually educated and inspired, and – GUESS WHAT – I actually started writing almost as soon as I finished reading this. Amazing, right?

I totally concur with those who liken this to Withnail and I and Samuel Beckett, but it‰ЫЄs not as depressing at this makes it sound.

Listened to this audiobook from the library while walking home from work and crocheting. It was fun and kept me interested but not engaged to the same level as say Harry Potter. I was excited to see the movie, but it turned out to be pretty underwhelming. There are never enough girl heroes, and yet. I wonder if I would have liked this book more or less or the same if I had read it instead of listened to it. Not planning to continue the series for now, but maybe later.

Picked this up somewhat randomly at the university library while looking for other things. The play on the title is clever, and there were some excellent passages, some particularly moving near the end. But as usual there is something about Muriel Spark that pushes against me somehow, something that makes her a bit difficult to read, but I guess I‰ЫЄll have to read more of her books to figure out what it is.

A lot of crying during the final third of this book, and I was surprised not to feel manipulated into it, although there were a few moments (that didn‰ЫЄt make me cry) that did feel forced. There are a lot of complexities around writing and reading and appreciating this kind of book (i.e., cancer death book) so I‰ЫЄm not going to get into things. The characters were charming, the dialogue was clever, and the story brought out some of my latent Health Studies learning. There was some really interesting stuff going on about stigma associated with illness, the visibility vs invisibility of disease, the problems with seeing those who are ill as fragile, and creative ways of dealing with illness and its stigma.

I read this over two weekends and was much less disturbed by it than I was expecting. I was waiting to have nightmares and feel gross after reading it, but either it wasn‰ЫЄt as bad as everyone said it would be, or I wasn‰ЫЄt as drawn into the world as I could have been. There were some particularly horrifying moments and images, but they didn‰ЫЄt extend beyond the page for me. Some of the ‰Ычpoetic‰ЫЄ writing was clunky, but I liked the overall tone of the book. Scott spoiled the discovery of the [redacted] like three pages before I got there, which probably took some wind out of my sails. The scavenging reminded me of this one phase when I was a kid where I saved scraps of fabric and string and plastic and other random things just in case our house burned down or the world ended or whatever and these scraps suddenly became useful. (I‰ЫЄm not sure how I imagined they would be useful. I can‰ЫЄt comprehend my thinking now. Probably brought on by a book or TV show or something.) Would like to read more Cormac McCarthy eventually.

This book pulled me out of a long period lacking in spare-time reading (i.e., I had no brain power left over for spare-time reading), so I am grateful to it for that. It was fun in a bookish nerd kind of way, like the Thursday Next books, except with a ‘level-headed spinster intrigue' rather than ‘epic fantasy adventure' quality which, you know, is not necessarily a bad thing. Which actually means that this book and the Thursday Next series have little to nothing in common, so why do I even bring it up? Because I have nothing else to say about this book? This may be true. The ending came in sight long before the story was over, though, posing as a Big Reveal without a satisfactory payoff, so the ending was a bit of a letdown. Although I seem to feel that way about most books.

I‰ЫЄve been hearing wonderful things about Georgette Heyer for years, and I finally took the plunge and was kind of disappointed. The writing was a bit stilted at times but the story was fun and the characters were cute but not much else. I was expecting more complexity and more feels. I will give Heyer another try though when I am looking for something fluffy. (Okay fine I‰ЫЄm only saying that so I can listen to Richard Armitage read the abridged audiobooks with impunity.) Also I should give her detective stories a chance since Sayers said good things about her too.

‰ЫПOn New Year‰ЫЄs morning this year Claire got us to drive to the ocean to watch the sun rise. That outing was what made me suddenly understand that I needed to start reading Robert Service again and getting up early ‰ЫУ that New Year‰ЫЄs outing combined with the time a few months ago when I took the night sleeper car from Washington to Boston and woke up in my bunk and pulled the curtain to look out the window and saw that we were in New York City, and I realized that I was passing through a very important center of commerce without seeing a single street and that something similar was happening with my life.‰Ыќ

I haven‰ЫЄt read many how-е_to writing books, so my reading was not comparative to other books of this kind that are out there, which I am assured is many. I thought it was very helpful and wellе_-organized. The tone was mostly conversational which I found nice. I actually did one of the exercises, which ended up being kind of illuminating. There was quite a lot of repetition throughout the book, but I found that helpful in a hammerе_-it-home kind of way. I‰ЫЄve read a lot of the books she uses as examples, which probably made a big difference. I like that she used films to illustrate some of her points (particularly Adaptation) because I find movie details easier to remember than details from novels. I feel like this would be a good book to revisit after getting enough distance from writing something to see if there are parts that can be tightened and sharpened in various ways.

Kevin is a longе_time Internet Chum, and I have collected most of his books. His writing is fun and hilarious on the surface level but also works on deeper levels (metaphorical, metaphysical, metallurgical, etc.) without being opaque or obtuse or obsequious. So you get awesome stories mostly about famous people having sexyе_funе_times with regular people but also about universal questions like: What does it mean to be a celebrity? What are famous people really like? How awesome would it be to have sex with someone famous? Why aren‰ЫЄt I famous too? Why won‰ЫЄt someone famous ever fall in love with me? Big questions.

My favourite story was ‰ЫПThe Reverse Fanfic‰Ыќ because it‰ЫЄs both a fantasy and a reversal that illustrates just how fucking crazy we are, we who adore these spectacular gods who are actually just plain old human beings, as hard as it is to believe. We love these people without knowing them in the slightest, without knowing what they look like without the makeup and the lighting and the touchе_ups, without ever having a conversation with them. How insane is that? What kind of love is that? This story turns that ridiculousness on the reader but still embraces the obsessiveness. And it‰ЫЄs about writing fanfiction, which is one of my favourite things about the internet.

One of the things I loved about these stories is that gender is mostly absent in the nonе_-famous characters. Which means that you can take these stories vicariously regardless of your personal sexual preferences! And it also reflects, I think, to a degree, the peculiar sexual-е_butе_-not feelings people have about celebrities. (Or maybe that‰ЫЄs just me.) It‰ЫЄs not necessarily that you are so interested in their genitalia or doing sexе_-type things with/to them; you kind of just want to be them and/or be the kind of person they would want to be with. Or maybe you just want to pet them, keep them in your pocket, sleep with them under your pillow. They are a fantasy partner that you want some kind of ownership of but do not want an actual relationship with. But then again, maybe it just means that sexual preferences can beat it when it comes to famous people because they are just that hot.

These are great stories if you are in any way, shape, or form part of or interested in fandoms and celebrity culture, sincerely or ironically, because they will make you giggle your face off and also think about celebrities and yourself in ways you may never have before.

I had a hankering to listen to an audiobook so that I could work on some knitting and crocheting, but the only thing suitable the library had immediately available (that I could think of off the top of my head in 10 minutes without leaving the couch) was this one. The story was all right and even fun at times but a little too far-fetched (reminded me of a Tintin story), and the voices (especially of Tommy and Tuppence, who were made to sound like dopey teenagers most of the time) started off promisingly but grated on me after a while. And, as unavoidable in British novels of this time (and probably most times), the xenophobia was rampant. Not planning to read or listen to any more of this series.

Fun but not as, um, deep? (it feels icky to say it, but) as I was expecting. It took me some time to actually like the diarist, who seems to be an early 20th century Bridget Jones, if you will, with similar anxieties and desires and hilarities, but in a different context – with husband and children and household and no actual friends.

—

‰ЫПFind it difficult to get ‰ЫчOranges and Lemons‰ЫЄ going, whilst at the same time appearing to give intelligent attention to remarks from visiting mother concerning Exhibition of Italian Pictures at Burlington House. Find myself telling her how marvellous I think them, although in actual fact have not yet seen them at all. Realise that this misstatement should be corrected at once, but omit to do so, and later find myself involved in entirely unintentional web of falsehood. Should like to work out how far morally to blame for this state of things, but have not time.‰Ыќ

—

‰ЫПAm escorted to the front gate by Cousin Maud, who tells me what a topping thing it is for old Mr. B. to be taken out of herself for a bit, and asks if it isn‰ЫЄt good to be Alive on a bracing day like this? Should like to reply that it would be far better for some of us to be dead, in my opinion, but spirit for this repartee fails me, and I weakly reply that I know what she means.‰Ыќ

I picked this up for two key reasons: a) I just bought the latest collection, More Baths and Less Talking, and wanted to get to it but hadn't read any of the others except the first, and my sense of chronology demanded senselessly that I go through them in order; and b) I wanted to get to 100 books read this year and this book would very quickly add another in the ‘done' column. For some reason I didn‰ЫЄt really dig this one as much as his first, although there were plenty of good columns here. More books that I‰ЫЄve actually read than usual. And the preface is great.

Really engaging, in part because of the shared narration between two characters, or really three characters, I suppose. I was kind of annoyed that it turned out the girl was the unhinged but brilliant one, and the guy was the reasonable one and apparently no more of an asshole than ‰ЫПnormal‰Ыќ. It kind of sent the message that although the guy does everything superficially wrong, the girl is capable of a much deeper and more terrible wrong. Which can certainly be true to an extent but – I don‰ЫЄt know, is there really anything to be annoyed about? Does it just mean that when you expect women to be sweet and pliant they may actually be the ones kicking ass and taking names, so watch the fuck out? I don‰ЫЄt know. I‰ЫЄm not sure how I feel about it.

But it does bring up interesting concerns about what love is and what it takes to spend your life with another person. And about the huge difference between what is really going on and what the public thinks is going on. And about how much public opinion influences behaviour even in a situation that is really none of the public‰ЫЄs business.

I didn‰ЫЄt love the way it ended. It seems to end for a long time, and I wished it would have ended with more of a bang. There were a series of bangs at the end, and then it just fizzled.

I had a really fun time reading this book and pretty much raced through it. It reminds me a lot of a Scarlett Thomas novel, although it doesn‰ЫЄt embrace actual magical things or more difficult-to-grasp concepts like she often does, and it was written to be more accessible (e.g. than The End of Mr. Y) and less explain-y (e.g. than PopCo). But it had a similar upbeat, optimistic, friendly, fun, engaging tone – brightly coloured and clearly delineated, if you can say such a thing about a novel. It loves old things and it loves new things and wants you to love it all too.

The book‰ЫЄs final message, or what I took to be its final message, was disappointing – have friends, make connections, and take advantage of them to help you solve mysteries and save the world. It‰ЫЄs a cute message but so much – I don‰ЫЄt know, smaller, less significant than it was building up to be? I mean, maybe it‰ЫЄs a revelation of truth for some people, and it worked with the quest structure of the story, but it didn‰ЫЄt work for me. It‰ЫЄs such a common thing in popular culture to find a family in your friends and whatever but I don‰ЫЄt know, I feel kind of weird in a world that suggests all your friends must be smart and talented and able to contribute toward your personal goals in life, like they‰ЫЄre some sort of curated collection of beings. Which is all I‰ЫЄm going to say about that because I know there are people who actually don‰ЫЄt have family and so friends truly are everything to them, and obviously you can pick your friends but not your family and there are some truly horrible people out there who are someone‰ЫЄs family, and seriously, bless them. So yeah.

And it was really weird to read about a cute, quirky, smart woman named Kat who lives in San Francisco because that describes my sister-in-law perfectly! Very weird.

I read this because Scott loved it when he read it many years ago and because Hitchens mentioned it in Mortality and because it was short and light enough to start and finish on a Sunday afternoon after finishing Tristram Shandy. Lovely and thought-provoking, but somehow a little slight, I thought. Which isn‰ЫЄt necessarily bad. I kept waiting for something that went over my head, that would push it into deeper territory, but it stayed accessible, which isn‰ЫЄt usually disappointing but kind of was here. It kept reminding me of D. M. Thomas‰ЫЄs The White Hotel, although I can‰ЫЄt put my finger on why. More obviously, it reminded me of Italo Calvino, which in turn reminded me that I should read more of his books. And that it would be lovely to understand more about science, but novels are so much more interesting.