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Wednesday
Jan242007

R.I.P.

R.I.P. the man who defined how I appreciate non-fiction: Ryszard Kapuscinski.

Tributes here, here, and here.

Tuesday
Jan232007

Maybe Sorokin was sniffing some fumes too

Forgive me if this post sounds dizzier than normal; I came home to an apartment reeking of chemicals, like paint thinner, with no good explanation as to why. I know this means that instead of sitting inside said apartment and typing out an entry here, I should probably be out in the fresh air somewhere, typing my musings at a cafe perhaps, or at least banging on neighbors' doors to make sure they're all still alive. But I feel compelled instead to sit here whiffing fumes to write about Vladimir Sorokin's Ice.

I must confess that wasn't initially enamored with Ice. I nearly quit it all together several times, but I knew from reading The Queue that Sorokin was not the most instantly rewarding of all writers, and so decided to stick with it. In the end, sticking to it was the right idea. Ice turned out to be a backward book. It's divided into four separate sections, and they appear in reverse order of the type of prose I'd actually be interested in reading. Then there's the theme, initially tough to swallow: thugs go around pounding people with axes made of intergalactic ice to try to awaken the dormant hearts of this blond-haired, blue-eyed "race" of people. Most Russians and Russophiles know how important Sorokin is to modern Russian literature, and so might forgive the stuttering entry to this book, but the rest of the world, folks who are just being introduced to the author, might have a harder time. There's a lot of naked hugging to get through, and then he starts in with the dreams. Then a first person narrative with a bit more character, but still quite a lot of naked hugging.

The reward is slow to reveal itself, but comes blaring in during Sorokin's clever Part III, his "customer testimonials." These are the gems hidden at the end of the book that reveal Sorokin's real talent for character study, for brief glimpses into the everyday lives of everyday people who suddenly find themselves doing not-so-everyday things. This talent was hinted at in the first two sections, but then it was too restricted by the need to drive the plot forward early on. No naked hugging here, just a bit of naked hand-holding. And Part IV is just, well, just precious.

Perhaps it's the fumes, but I still need a moment to sort out much of Sorokin's blond-haired, blue-eyed, ice-picking, naked hugging theme in my head. While I go breathe through a sock, it might be best if you go appreciate a real review at the Los Angeles Times Book Review.

And check on me in the morning.

Monday
Jan222007

Meanwhile, he was listening to Johnny Coosh and The Cleesh

The weekend, from the perspective of his ears

TheHusband: What are you listening to?
Me: A bock podcast.
TheHusband: Bock?
Me: Bock.
TheHusband: You mean Bach? (producing a guttural sound)
Me: Yes, Bock. How am I supposed to be saying it?
TheHusband: Bach. Or Back.
Me: Back? Now that's just wrong. Bock.
TheHusband: Next you'll be telling me you're listening to a Muzzert pidcust.
Me: ...
TheHusband: ...
Me: ...
TheHusband: ...
Me: Bock.

Sunday
Jan212007

Sunday Zen

Thursday
Jan182007

Dun dun DUN

I came home to another tasty issue of Wired waiting for me in the mailbox. I can't get enough of it. Before I got too deeply entrenched to come up for air, I flipped through and landed on the review of China Mieville's first foray into children's young adult literature, Un Lun Dun. (The review isn't yet online; in fact, when I looked it up, it asked: "did you mean dun dun dun?", which sounded quite ominous.) After finishing a book completely devoid of any children whatsoever (where women baptize kittens and push dolls around in prams), and with two more apocalyptic books on the nightstand (Cormac McCarthy's The Road and Vladimir Sorokin's Ice), I just might need something for children sometime soon. Based on Wired's review, Un Lun Dun might do the trick.

Or should that be Mary Poppins to counter the bleak with a spoonful of sugar? Something with sweet animals in it, perhaps?

The bleak might win out. You'll soon find me, wide-eyed and trembling in a corner, a copy of Beatrix Potter in hand, whispering: "The animals... they're talking! He was baked into a pie!"