sorry, Harold

January 14, 2010

With all due respect to Prof. Bloom, I have to agree with my mom’s assessment, instead: I just can’t get into John Crowley’s Little, Big. 2 chapters in, it just seems like the kind of book I’ll need more time than I’ll ever have in my life to really enjoy.

The writing is odd, to me. I love me a long sentence, but sometimes these seem stilted. And while there are many beautiful turns of phrase (one character is described as “a streak of presence surrounded by a dim glow of absence”), there are others that…aren’t (“Her brown eyes were deliquescent in the lamplight”…deliquescent?!).




January 13, 2010

I think someone’s in cahoots with my TBR friends to slow me down…now I have two more loans: LeBron James’ memoir Shooting Stars, about his high school basketball team (an excerpt was in a recent Vanity Fair and was quite good), and John Crowley’s Little, Big, which is apparently one of Harold Bloom’s favourite books. My mother says she couldn’t get into it, at least right now, so we’ll see. I loved Stardust but it might have fantasy’d me out. While I’ve started and not finished other books, it’s hardly ever been because I couldn’t appreciate them stylistically (here’s a confession: the only one of those was The Satanic Verses…just didn’t work for me, at least at the time I tried to read it).

After these two, no more loans! I have to get back to Englishman’s Boy, even if I’d still be on schedule if I finished it in February.