On to Better Things

So, my completion of The Wreath didn't really alter my general feelings of apathy to the project-- but what ended up being a more realistic, if not less borderline melodramatic, end to the thing than I'd expected did result in a smidgen more of approval for the novel. (The one thing, though, that still has me laughing? The fact that Kristin's dad rides the same horse throughout the book, which encompasses a span of at least ten years-- and yet the amazing creature never ceases to gallop all over the place and be a generally impressive specimen of broad-chested strength and horsy manliness throughout.)

Source: David Shankbone

But that done, and with a weariness resulting from an only OK pile of finished books put behind me over the last couple of weeks, I decided to move on to something more likely to float my boat-- and George Saunders' CivilWarLand in Bad Decline has so far not disappointed. Given, I've only read the first short story (of the same name as the collection in general). But if the rest of the volume is like that initial offering, I'll continue to be blown away by the guy's ability to hit you hard with a completely masterful, and unexpected, ending-- all after having demonstrated why, if I were to teach again, I'd offer an ethics course using only his works. The man is a brilliant examiner of nuanced motivations, fears, hopes, and sticky dilemmas, without being remotely self-congratulatory about it all. The last few sentences of the opening story, and the actions therein, gave me such a grateful thump of hard-won beauty that my suddenly lumpy throat nearly pushed me to tears. That's all I can say about it without spoiling it for others-- so I'll remain silent. Needless to say, though, I'm truly looking forward to opening up those pages tonight.

A Rant, and Then Back to Reading

OK, kids: let the excuses flow. When traveling for work, it seems that all reading gets set aside; by the time all the meetings and schmoozing and forced smiling have come to a blessed end, my brain is too tired to look at a printed page without feeling disheartened about my temporary lack of ability to engage with it in any meaningful way. And although I did knock out a solid portion of Pascal's Pensées on the plane ride over, the return trip wasn't nearly as fruitful, involving as it did lengthy hang-outs on the tarmac waiting for a storm cell to blow over, then a consequent missing of all available connections home and spending the night trying unsuccessfully to sleep in a chair next to stilled baggage carousels. All those hours of potential reading time went unused; among other things, the hourly drive-by of the floor-waxing Zamboni was just too amusingly/dismayingly absurd to think of dedicating myself to prolonged concentration.

Source: JohnnyMrNinja

And then there's Google and its increasingly ridiculous sign-in protocols. I joined this here blogging site back when it was just a lone little personal publishing endeavor, before the days of being swept up along with so many other things by the G-demon's ever-grasping arms. Its ease of use, as well as my not-quite-satisfaction with Wordpress, meant I stayed on, even if it meant continuing to funnel blocks of big data to a corporation that's into things like making creepily invasive eyewear. And of course, I've done so while refusing to hand over my phone number to this nosy behemoth-- a decision that meant, just because I was traveling (as people do), that blogging was off-limits, as I was unable to sign into my own damn account, with my own damn password and particular e-mail address, the latter of which they could've used to verify my authenticity if they'd allowed that option to function. At any rate, I finally found a "contact us" form, and sent in an irritated message, to no avail. So here I am back home, subjecting everyone to a rant, but finally able to sign into a little blog account that I'm sure every high-powered cyber criminal is so eager to get his/her hands on, since the words that flow from my keyboard are oh-so-world-historically influential.

Anyway. End of missive.

I did finish Autumn Journal, and even though the latter half wasn't as mindblowingly spectacular as the first, I'm still itching to read more of MacNeice. Plus, I'm over halfway through the first volume of the Kristin Lavransdatter trilogy, The Wreath, and hope to be done with it in the next day or so. Glad I'm more familiar with the thing-- but in the end, it's another historical romance, and I'm quite alright with having rounds two and three spoiled for me, since I probably won't be following up with the rest of the series. I'm hoping the next Nobel-winning author I come across is more inspiring than Undset and Andric (whom I read just before beginning KL).