It’s over. Aside from an unfortunate incident involving missing tacos, I read all day today. I started around 12 and ended around 12. Altogether, counting distractions, I’d say I managed at least 20 hours. I’m tired, but content.
I’m also really looking forward to doing something active tomorrow.
Don’t get me wrong, all the lounging about reading books this weekend was everything I hoped it would be. I finished Bonita Avenue in one sitting, although knowing what I know now I will choose my stack more carefully next time.
Let me explain. Bonita Avenue was a heavy, saturated novel describing often deeply complicated relationships between fragmented families and their flawed participants. The prose was so rich, the plot so tertiary to the internal landscapes of each character, each sentence resonated long after the initial reading. This requires processing time, a prolonged rumination spaced with contemplative activities like walking or washing dishes, to truly appreciate.
Still, it was a lovely book and I’m delighted my friend recommended it! I plan on coming back to it sometime later, maybe while I’m pondering the bleak wastes of Iceland or traveling across the isolated moors.
Since Bonite Avenue was all too real and terrifying in a completely human way, I turned to Bird Box next. Bird Box was terrifying in a completely inhuman way, although some hysteria added to the chaos of invasive, inhuman creatures. It was the quickest read by far, weighing in at a mere 272 pages, with a good deal of dialogue and quick, short sentences. The whole style of the writing created a sense of anxiety and impetus, moving the book forward at a tumultuous speed. As a reader, not being able to see the enemy, the terror behind ferrying two very young children through a dangerous landscape, and the insanity of survivors trying to manage the psychological burden of the event was tantalizing, to say the least.
Since at this rate, I was starting to get tired, I thought I’d try some short stories for a little instant gratification. Benjamin Hale’s The Fat Artist was a little more intense than I expected, even though I am familiar with his prose. His stories, again, have a disturbing way of tilting reality and his sense of rhythm and voice is hypnotizing. His narrators are singularly unflappable, or at least they tend to face the inevitability of their fates with a kind of dignity or acceptance that complements the author’s existential purposes.
All told, I managed a little over 1,350 pages. I still have 143 pages left in the short story collection, but I’m confident I can take care of that before I leave for Oregon on Tuesday. And, of course, I already have my books picked out for the plane.
shelf-conscious 