March 30, 2009

I’ve got two very different books out from the library right now. One’s read, and one’s in process, and I’ve been working hard at figuring out what to write about them, without much luck.

Which is strange, for me. I’m a woman of strong opinions, especially about what I read. I mean, I like a lot of different kinds of things, but I either love a book (lots of them) or hate it (I even keep one or two literary disasters on my bookshelves just as cautionary tales).

But these books…I don’t know, can’t say.

I should say what they are.

The first, the one I’ve finished, is Marjane Satrapi’s graphic novel / memoir Persepolis: The Story of A Childhood.  Many have raved, and I can appreciate what they see in the book, but…it just wasn’t for me. I didn’t find it artistically interesting (and yes, I get it, it’s supposed to be naive), and as much as I wanted to like the story (since it’s “An Important Story”, and I usually dig that), I found the writing somewhat stilted.  I wouldn’t discourage anyone who thinks s/he’s interested from reading it…I’d love to hear other’s opinions…but for now…meh.

The second book, my current read, is James Ellroy’s The Cold Six Thousand. He’s the author of LA Confidential, among other things. And this, I thought, for sure would be a hit. It’s a literary sort of contemporary novel, different perspectives and an unusual narrative style. Plus it’s about the US in the 1960s, starting with Kennedy’s assassination (one of my major non-fiction interests a couple of years back), which I like.

But again…meh. I don’t know what it is. I usually either devour a book or have to put it down, and I’m just, sort of, reading this. Hmmm….