And for my next trick, I’ll be teaching a master class in how not to blog.
Anyway, I’m avoiding another project right now, long enough to say that I read all those books I said I was going to read, and I haven’t said much of anything because if you don’t have anything nice to say, avoid blogging about it for two months? Well, not that I have nothing nice to say, more like, I have nice things to say, but I mostly have not nice things to say, and I didn’t really think anyone would mind if I opted not to rant off like a total jerkface for a while. Because do you really need a long post by some guy with a blog talking about how he’s sort of not that crazy about Freedom by Jonathan Franzen and about how he pretty much completely disliked Our Tragic Universe by Scarlett Thomas, a book that may have single handedly killed all joy our humble narrator may have once taken in self-indulgent meta-fiction? Both of which are true things I could say about my recent reading experiences? Yeah, things got a little dark and despair-ridden there, so, you know, best to duck and cover until the nuclear wave of ugh passed by. Or something. How does this work again?
I do still have some good books I want to talk about before the year is up, like Metropole by Ferenc Karinthy, which, do us both a favor and just read it and help me avoid the embarrassment of not having told you to read it sooner, yes? And other books from this year. And stuff.
And, uh, yeah. I’ve also got a review coming out sometime soon. That’s for a book I liked. Get excited.
Plus, you know. Dostoevsky.
