No lit-crit here. Well, precious little. It's not my bag.
One rather facile observation, however, on the reading of books:
It's striking how much longer some take (me) to read than others. Case in point:
- The New Life by Orhan Pamuk: getting on for two months of pecking away at it on train rides in and out of London; often hastening the feeling of sleepiness at either end of the working day
- Liver by Will Self: two days of reading it only on train rides (admittedly including a couple of longer-than-usual ones) - 140 pages read, i.e. about 50% of the way through
I've skimmed a few reviews that suggest Pamuk's work is "complex and challenging" and demanding "continuous contemplation". So maybe that's it, and maybe it's not just me. Perhaps the fact that it's a Turkish work means that it isn't littered with easily identifiable points of reference (my experiences of visiting Turkey are pretty limited) and so it's hard work trying to visualise the scenes set. Self's book, in stark contrast, opens with a whole section/story set in and around a Soho that's instantly recognisable to me.
No big point being made here, much less any real conclusion being arrived at. Just a bit of idle musing on this sunny Saturday morning.
The Pamuk book and the job of slogging through it were what was alluded to in a bit of poesy I jotted down here a little while ago.
No comments:
Post a Comment