Wordy Wednesday

 

What are you reading? Back in the last century, I belonged to a book discussion group, and we read a fair amount of serious non-fiction. It was fun, but it took quite a bit of effort to attend or host the meetings. The women were very nice and intensely smart. I'd be way out of my depth now.

Once a month, we drove through rush hour traffic to meet up for dinner and talk about books. Needless to say, we were younger and energetic, even after a full workday at Microsoft. Occasionally, we met in restaurants, but mostly in people's homes. It was never a pot luck. The host owned the dinner plans.

Which became more gourmet as time went on. Eventually, it was more about the food experience and socializing than the books. I once cooked whole Cornish game hens for 8. All those bones? What was I thinking? Another time, homemade butter crust individual potpies. Grilled sausages outdoors with several salads. Really.

I guess it's typical for our reading tastes to evolve over time. During the pandemic, I went on author jags, reading everything by Ivan Doig, John Irving and Daphne du Mauier. It's good to revisit favorites and pick up new ones. Everyone knows "Rebecca" but not "My Cousin Rachel." A old-fashioned, psychological page turner with Mauier's beautifully descriptive writing. There's something satisfying about going through an entire author's works, in order. 

And I've always liked Larry McMurtry, enough to re-read some of his books. You wouldn't admit to liking a paperback author in my old book group, even if he did win a Pulitzer Prize. But his stories have vivid, complex characters like Gus in "Lonesome Dove." No author writes more entertaining dialog.

I skim though the New York Times book supplement on Sundays, and to be honest, just reading the reviews and synopsis of most new books is enough. My attention span isn't what it used to be. Give me a good, well-written story I can pick up without having to read backwards and figure out where I dozed off.

Speaking of big storytellers. I'm snow-plowing my way through Irving's latest novel "The Last Chairlift," all 881 pages. At 80, Irving claims this is his last big novel, maybe a mercy for his faithful readers. 

I have a dear old friend from those book group days, and she couldn't get past the first few hundred pages, the writing is so redundant. 

So far, I like it, in the way you "enjoy" grinding along through all of Irving's mega novels. And I have tolerance for his peculiar brand of verbal redundancy. Heck, I'm getting redundant myself! How many times have I blogged about the same old thing?

Since we grew up in Colorado (skiing) it's interesting reading about the old-fashioned races and places like Aspen in the 1940's and 50's, long before they became Filthy Rich Ski Towns. I'm only on page 50 of this mighty tome, and if I make it through, look for a book review in about 2 months.