The Death of ‘Sironia, Texas’ and notes about this year’s reading.

So, “Sironia, Texas” didn’t happen. I got through 100 pages or so, and it wasn’t all that good. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, at least from a blogging perspective. We could deconstruct the text, see what’s working, what isn’t, and why; analyzing what’s bad can sometimes illuminate what’s good. But “Sironia, Texas” also indulges in good old fashioned racism, which begins on the endpapers, which contain a map where a section of the town is named using the n-word. I could have either not addressed it, which would be weird, or attempted to address it, which I have neither the desire or the skill to do. So, it got dropped, and along with it, the notion of having a ‘project’ for the blog.

Instead of blogging, I took the dog for walks, got hearing aids, tried to write a couple of more generic entries for the blog which fell apart, and took up playing the piano, which is currently occupying a lot of my mental real estate.

I did keep reading, though. According to Storygraph, I read roughly the same number of pages this year as I did last, though some of those were from “themystery.doc” so they consisted of repeated punctuation, photographs, and other weirdness, so I’m mentally docking myself a few. But my average is just under a book a week, a pace I am decently happy with.

Since I’m unlikely to finish the two books I am reading at present before the year ends, it’s as good a time as any to take a look back and take a little stock. I keep a running thread of what I finish on Mastodon, and write a little reaction with it; I’ll refer back to it from time to time to see what I enjoyed, and help me pick out what to read next.

What I liked:

Jon Fosse “Septology”. I had started these late the year before. They are some of the best books I have read, and I think about them often. Fosse digs to the core of the experiences that make us, and draws you into the world of his protagonist so completely that I swear I could feel the snow he walked in. He won the Nobel Prize in literature this year, and his lecture illuminates his thoughts on writing, and is worth a read.

Mariana Enriquez “Our Share of Night”. I started reading this because I wanted to read a horror novel, and yes, this is a horror novel in some respects, but the reality is that it transcends genre. It tells a story that’s both political and familial and deals with trauma, history, and the arcane while driving forward with a few intertwined central mysteries.

William H. Gass “The Tunnel”. One of the slower reads for me this year. Gass’ prose is dense, and his story here is one of depression, trauma, and a look at the darkest regions of the psyche.

Fernanda Melchor “Hurricane Season”. One of the ugliest books I have ever read, and one of the hardest hitting. I loved it, but it was hard for me to recommend to anyone simply because the story it tells is very hard to take. It’s a violent, brutal tale, one told in a deft and powerful manner.

What I didn’t like:

Alexander Theroux “Einstein’s Beets”. I have never read a book more in need of an editor. Theroux takes an interesting premise, food aversions, and creates a repetitive, cranky and very very long polemic. His hatred of Andrew Zimmern is hilarious, his prose is decent, but this needs a major trim. My Mastodon note on the book says it has a briliant final chapter, and I will believe myself, but I don’t really recall it now.

Catlin Starling “The Luminous Dead”. Another book that suffered from “far too long syndrome”. The premise and setting were neat, but what should have been at best a tight novella was instead a joyless slog, and when the monster finally makes an appearance, I didn’t care.

Rereads:

Virginia Woolf “To The Lighthouse”. I read this in college, I think, and I remembered it fondly, but as a grownup with time and space to drink it in, it became more profound. Woolf writes with a kind of bright sadness. A friend described her work as “being held” and I don’t disagree.

Mary Shelley “Frankenstein”. I read this as a kid, and hated it because Victor Frankenstein is an insufferable narrator and I wanted hot monster action. As an adult, I loved it because Victor Frankenstein is an insufferable narrator. It didn’t occur to me as a young adult that was part of the point. This edition contained highlights showing edits to the text by Shelly’s husband, and was appended by her unedited text; it was interesting to see how editing shaped her tale.

Uncategorized:

Robert M. Pirsig “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”.This was a reread as well. I wrote an entry about it, but am mentioning it here because it still rattles around in my head from time to time, and the thoughts it spawned on engaging with a thing authentically still create new thoughts which I sometimes pursue on afternoon walks with the dog.

That’s a long one:

After abandoning “Sironia, Texas”, I started reading the longest novel written in English, “Clarissa” by Samuel Richardson. I’m about halfway through it, but doubt I will finish it this year. The ‘reading timer’ on the kindle estimates I have about forty more dedicated hours to finish it, and I don’t doubt that. It’s dense, sometimes long winded, and it’s an epistolatory novel, which isn’t something I typically like. However, it’s a fascinating read, a masterclass in building characters, and while I haven’t quite figured out why it’s as long as it is, I haven’t felt as though there are things I would remove. Perhaps when I finish I’ll have more to say about it.

Keep the fire lit. I’ll come back to the circle from time to time.