I have of late (as in since Saturday) been channeling procrastination energy into reading. I was moderately horrified to realize that I have no less than 49 (I suppose now 48?) unread books of fiction on my bookshelf. At college. Not counting the ones at home. Apparently I have been retail therapying at Borders a bit more than I realized. . . 18 of these were acquired this school year.
In the last few days, I have finished How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents, The Remains of the Day, by Kazuo Ishiguro (now very curious to see the movie of the same name with Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson), and The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman.
I would say the overall effect is to make me pleasantly mad with possibilities. . .
Today I started reading How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents by Julia Alvarez.
The room next door to me in the communal student house I live in was never fully moved out of by its previous occupant, so my other neighbor/former roommate and I have been taking his stuff down to his new basement room over the past few days. He has a lot of stuff.
We both took a 'book tax,' if you will -- she borrowed his copy of Dexter and I borrowed this book. My Spanish teacher recommended it (after rolling her eyes and declaring The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao a "sensacionalista" representation of the Dominican Republic. Junot Diaz, who teaches at MIT, apparently responded to her telling him this by saying, "You throw your shit, I'll throw mine.")
So far I find it. . . interesting? Well-written and readable, certainly. But a great deal of the book is about the four sisters' relationships with various men, which is . . . not something I find myself particularly able to identify with. . .wrinkly face of wryness.
