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adrian_turtleOne of the things I enjoyed doing when I started this journal was posting about my reading. That was secondary. One of the things I really enjoyed doing was reading. Knowing other people felt the same way was pretty cool. Jo wrote that she had read something, "because, hey! words!" Awww...I knew that feeling. It was only recently, in turtle years, that I finally realized I will run out of time before I run out of things to read -- i.e., that there is no earthly reason to save a good book for later while I flip through every scrap of text in the doctor's waiting room or on the bus.
For 4 days in October, I was carrying around _The Bone People_, by Keri Hulme, reading a few pages whenever I could spare a moment. This had the bizarre effect of causing strangers to flirt with me. I am not generally interested in flirting with random strangers on the street. (I usually suspect "wotcha reading?" as a prelude to at least hostile teasing, or maybe a grab, rather than anything friendly.) But I usually get through a day with 0-1 stranger trying to start a conversation with me...on the days I was carrying _The Bone People_, it was 3-6 every day. I didn't want to TALK about it, I wanted to finish reading it! I wished they would give me my change, or my tea, or get out of my way, and leave off pestering me with the impossible questions. (What's it like? It's not like anything else I've ever read. I told one person it was a little like _Bastard out of Carolina_, but it really isn't.)
I also read _The Sirens Sang of Murder_ and _The Shortest Way to Hades_, both by Sarah Caudwell. Wonderful, wonderful! Has she written more, besides _The Sybil in Her Grave_? It occurred to me, looking at the YA shelves at the library, that Caudwell takes a different approach to "adult" themes than a lot of authors. But I need another post about that. Maybe several posts.
For most of the last 2 months, I've been depressed enough to interfere with reading. It started subtly enough, I suppose. I tried _Barchester Towers_ (the only Trollope in the local library), and had to give it up after plodding through a couple of chapters. I blamed myself, or occasionally Trollope. That library trip also produced book 5 of the Harry Potter series, which I cruised through with extensive cursing and a sense of simmering resentment. At several points, I looked up and thought, "it's a good thing for the library that this book is too heavy to throw against a wall." I found the absence of Rowlings' usual elbow-in-the-ribs humor something of a relief, but the style still set my teeth on edge.
_The Mill on the Floss_ was another weird coincidence, like _Barchester Towers_. I recognized the author's name from discussons here, though the title was unfamiliar, and there it was on the YA shelf at the library. And reading it felt like a tremendous struggle, more like reading group theory than any kind of fiction (or even narrative non-fiction.) It's hard to believe teachers and librarians consider this appropriate for kids of 12 or 13, when I can't get through it. I used to be a good reader! Really.
At the end of October, after seeing one of Daegaer's stories about Will Stanton, I reread the first Susan Cooper book that came to my hand, which happened to be _The Grey King_. It was a lot slower going than I remembered, but at least I *could* read it. That was oddly reassuring. Then I tried to reread _Greenwitch_ in the bathtub. And dozed off. And dropped the book. I have been reading in bathtubs for the last 20 years -- over half my lifetime. While damp page corners are sometimes a problem, I do NOT drop books in the water! (Sleeping in the tub and reading in the tub may both be bad habits, but I'm good at keeping them separate.) The only redeeming feature of the unsettling matter is it was _Greenwitch_. If anything were going to be immersed, that seems apt.
Then I found Gillian Bradshaw's _Render Unto Caesar_, which was only weak when compared to some of her other novels. Even so, the characters are vivid enough that I want to take them out of time and try them in alternate history or time-travel, or just have conversations with them. The flaws are in periodicity...it may be defensible, but it looks like it needs a fair amount of defending.
_Mist of Prophecies_ is a Steven Saylor book, like most of the other Steven Saylor books, a mystery set in ancient Rome. I liked most of them well enough, but this one was so unspeakably dull I didn't finish it. I don't know if it suffered because I read it in such close proximity to the Bradshaw, and they approach history and character so differently. (I think the juxtaposition makes both novels look weaker, an unpleasant rarity. Usually a pairing makes one looks better, the other worse. Or both benefit.) Or I'm not seeing good points this winter. Or Saylor slipped up. *shrug*
I tried reading Steven Barnes' _Iron Shadows_, but it just didn't make any sense. It reminded me of a Michael Crichton thriller, though it wasn't anti-science. I abandoned it about halfway through. Shirley Meier's _Shadow's Daughter_ succeeded in grabbing me, though I know I missed subplots. I was reading _Engine Summer_, and wondering if the "hey, words!" effect and mood would be worth the effort. I feel like reading about an idyllic childhood should not be such a strain.
I tried reading Vikram Seth's _A Suitable Boy_. Each page seems like just the kind of thing I would like, and I spend a long time looking at it, trying to make it connect to the others, and I just can't. I gave up on it after a few sections.
I started looking for simpler books, and rereading. I don't know what to do with myself when I'm not reading. (Stare at the wall. Stare at the screen and sulk on AIM, whether anyone is there to talk to or not.) _Green Boy_, by Susan Cooper. How can I not get into a Susan Cooper story? Bleah. Pfui. Except for one flicker, that may have been ambient starlight rather than text. ("You can't stop us, it's a force of nature."/"No, nature is a force against you.") I tried rereading _The Game of Thrones_, looking at it almost as a collection of stories when I couldn't summon the attention to put it all together, skimming when I couldn't bring myself to care about Catelyn or Eddard. Or Daenyrys. Or Sansa. Oh, hell. It rather falls apart then, doesn't it?
It's looking like this is not a problem with a particular book being dull or difficult, or not suiting me. The problem is in me, not in the books. I find I'd rather stare at the wall than read anything at all. Or that it's often easier to stare blankly at the page and not read. This would be a more disturbing symptom of depression than forgetting to eat or sleep. I say "would be" rather than "is," because I'd have to care more than I do to find it really disturbing.
For 4 days in October, I was carrying around _The Bone People_, by Keri Hulme, reading a few pages whenever I could spare a moment. This had the bizarre effect of causing strangers to flirt with me. I am not generally interested in flirting with random strangers on the street. (I usually suspect "wotcha reading?" as a prelude to at least hostile teasing, or maybe a grab, rather than anything friendly.) But I usually get through a day with 0-1 stranger trying to start a conversation with me...on the days I was carrying _The Bone People_, it was 3-6 every day. I didn't want to TALK about it, I wanted to finish reading it! I wished they would give me my change, or my tea, or get out of my way, and leave off pestering me with the impossible questions. (What's it like? It's not like anything else I've ever read. I told one person it was a little like _Bastard out of Carolina_, but it really isn't.)
I also read _The Sirens Sang of Murder_ and _The Shortest Way to Hades_, both by Sarah Caudwell. Wonderful, wonderful! Has she written more, besides _The Sybil in Her Grave_? It occurred to me, looking at the YA shelves at the library, that Caudwell takes a different approach to "adult" themes than a lot of authors. But I need another post about that. Maybe several posts.
For most of the last 2 months, I've been depressed enough to interfere with reading. It started subtly enough, I suppose. I tried _Barchester Towers_ (the only Trollope in the local library), and had to give it up after plodding through a couple of chapters. I blamed myself, or occasionally Trollope. That library trip also produced book 5 of the Harry Potter series, which I cruised through with extensive cursing and a sense of simmering resentment. At several points, I looked up and thought, "it's a good thing for the library that this book is too heavy to throw against a wall." I found the absence of Rowlings' usual elbow-in-the-ribs humor something of a relief, but the style still set my teeth on edge.
_The Mill on the Floss_ was another weird coincidence, like _Barchester Towers_. I recognized the author's name from discussons here, though the title was unfamiliar, and there it was on the YA shelf at the library. And reading it felt like a tremendous struggle, more like reading group theory than any kind of fiction (or even narrative non-fiction.) It's hard to believe teachers and librarians consider this appropriate for kids of 12 or 13, when I can't get through it. I used to be a good reader! Really.
At the end of October, after seeing one of Daegaer's stories about Will Stanton, I reread the first Susan Cooper book that came to my hand, which happened to be _The Grey King_. It was a lot slower going than I remembered, but at least I *could* read it. That was oddly reassuring. Then I tried to reread _Greenwitch_ in the bathtub. And dozed off. And dropped the book. I have been reading in bathtubs for the last 20 years -- over half my lifetime. While damp page corners are sometimes a problem, I do NOT drop books in the water! (Sleeping in the tub and reading in the tub may both be bad habits, but I'm good at keeping them separate.) The only redeeming feature of the unsettling matter is it was _Greenwitch_. If anything were going to be immersed, that seems apt.
Then I found Gillian Bradshaw's _Render Unto Caesar_, which was only weak when compared to some of her other novels. Even so, the characters are vivid enough that I want to take them out of time and try them in alternate history or time-travel, or just have conversations with them. The flaws are in periodicity...it may be defensible, but it looks like it needs a fair amount of defending.
_Mist of Prophecies_ is a Steven Saylor book, like most of the other Steven Saylor books, a mystery set in ancient Rome. I liked most of them well enough, but this one was so unspeakably dull I didn't finish it. I don't know if it suffered because I read it in such close proximity to the Bradshaw, and they approach history and character so differently. (I think the juxtaposition makes both novels look weaker, an unpleasant rarity. Usually a pairing makes one looks better, the other worse. Or both benefit.) Or I'm not seeing good points this winter. Or Saylor slipped up. *shrug*
I tried reading Steven Barnes' _Iron Shadows_, but it just didn't make any sense. It reminded me of a Michael Crichton thriller, though it wasn't anti-science. I abandoned it about halfway through. Shirley Meier's _Shadow's Daughter_ succeeded in grabbing me, though I know I missed subplots. I was reading _Engine Summer_, and wondering if the "hey, words!" effect and mood would be worth the effort. I feel like reading about an idyllic childhood should not be such a strain.
I tried reading Vikram Seth's _A Suitable Boy_. Each page seems like just the kind of thing I would like, and I spend a long time looking at it, trying to make it connect to the others, and I just can't. I gave up on it after a few sections.
I started looking for simpler books, and rereading. I don't know what to do with myself when I'm not reading. (Stare at the wall. Stare at the screen and sulk on AIM, whether anyone is there to talk to or not.) _Green Boy_, by Susan Cooper. How can I not get into a Susan Cooper story? Bleah. Pfui. Except for one flicker, that may have been ambient starlight rather than text. ("You can't stop us, it's a force of nature."/"No, nature is a force against you.") I tried rereading _The Game of Thrones_, looking at it almost as a collection of stories when I couldn't summon the attention to put it all together, skimming when I couldn't bring myself to care about Catelyn or Eddard. Or Daenyrys. Or Sansa. Oh, hell. It rather falls apart then, doesn't it?
It's looking like this is not a problem with a particular book being dull or difficult, or not suiting me. The problem is in me, not in the books. I find I'd rather stare at the wall than read anything at all. Or that it's often easier to stare blankly at the page and not read. This would be a more disturbing symptom of depression than forgetting to eat or sleep. I say "would be" rather than "is," because I'd have to care more than I do to find it really disturbing.
