Now that I am in work and also due to the lack of multi-level, engrossing social interactions (which is all I’ve ever wanted in every sector of each stage of the journey of my life really) I found myself compelled to seek refuge in a bookshop on Friday.
Post-biblio pleasure is like the memory of a compliment, times a kiss, which equals a date in which you are sure to have incredible conversations.
This feeling beats speed drinking hot-chocolate alone in a nice café, because the quality of the ‘alone-ness’ is better there, than being stuck in a staff Break Room. I intended to buy Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller because I read bits of it in the back office of my ‘I run a department in a book shop’ days and found its self-referential, stream-of-consciousness style amusing.
I re-read it, and decided that punching Italo Calvino in the face would be far too much effort, so I merely groaned:”Get on with it already…” This is the equivalent of the friend with the rambling emailing style who fixates on one particular detail, in one particular instance:
“He walked in wearing a blue shirt. Do you think this is indicative of his internal mental state at all? Did he notice I wore blue yesterday? Is he perhaps ponderous, free-thinking, or spiritual? And why do I suddenly care Pola? How much should I care do you think? To help, do you want to know the shade of blue, the fabric type and quality, the label and the level of ironing – or not?”
Disclaimer: I am that person.
I picked up Possession by A.S. Byatt; the film was terrible, but Jennifer Ehle. Enough said. The book contained squat, dense, inky type, of maximum smudge-ability which always makes me feel slightly seedy and claustrophobic, no matter how “well conceived” the content. It is definitely a novel written for intellectuals who dream of: more funding, better publishing records, intense sapiosexual foreplay and maybe even some actual sex.
I said ACTUAL. *tuts*.
All that said however, I salute anyone who has sallied forth to publication. Books are friends with benefits. Those benefits being the ability to suddenly stoke engaged passion, seemingly out of nothingness.
It ended in me buying The Muse by Jessie Burton. I hadn’t read her debut, The Miniaturist although I’d often walked past it in the store and pondered the cover. Miniaturist’s premise sounded slightly more like the milk-chocolate version of Angela Carter’s DARK chocolate but I wasn’t curious enough to investigate. I’m quite certain The Muse features a character with un-diagnosed bipolar, and I also know which character is the author’s own avatar, which is a game I like to play.
That was by no means ALL I got from it, but I’m not The Guardian… I shall review it soon. In the meantime…
~ Pola ~