Sometimes the body count in my reading is high. Of late, the un-body count has been rising. I noticed the presence in W. G. Sebald, when I began reading Austerlitz (2001; Translated from the German, 2011) earlier this year. In the photographs which accompany his narrative, there are no
As short as “Mousse” and as sharply assembled, “On with the New in France (1981)” presents an itemized list of grievances from a frustrated citizen. In just under a thousand words, the story opens with a nod towards “La Vie Parisienne”, with a complaint rooted in the resident’s lodgings.
Although I loved books about animals when I was a younger reader, in my teens I backed off. I realised that books in which sad things happen to the four-legged and furred or feathered characters were even sadder than the books in which sad things happened to human characters.
Wishart has summer plans. They remind me of Walter’s widow-soaked season in “An Unmarried Man’s Summer”. Here, however, Bonnie is a divorcee. “Like many spiteful, snobbish, fussy men, or a certain type of murderer, Wishart chose his friends among middle-aged solitary women.” It’s not just for effect, this comment:
The winter months are good reading months for me, especially when snug indoors with a view of the snowy cityscape. I've been reading more than I've been reviewing here, so here's a peek into the recent stacks. Iris Murdoch’s Under the Net (1954) and The Sandcastle (1957) were read with
