Oh poop. I’m always a day late and a dollar short. Haven’t gotten but halfway through Cannery Row, and I’m using that as an excuse not to go join a reading group tonight. If I’m a reluctant writer (not in the amount of output, but rather the acceptance of it) I’m more so the reluctant to speak-up reader. Except on this weblog of course, where the rotten tomatoes can’t penetrate your monitor screen. But there’s always next month, another thirty days to screw up my courage or screw up my psyche instead.
Same thing on Metaxucafe. They’ve already forum-discussed one of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s more recent novels, Chronicle of a Death Foretold, and here I’ve just discovered, been thrown to my knees by the man, but on the long ago written 100 Years of Solitude, which everyone else pretty much read long ago too.
So in the meantime, I’ve no one to run through Cannery Row with, and what do you think my chances are of drawing an enthusiastic discussion on Aristotle’s Poetics? I could see it now, me with my discourse all ready and asking all, "Hey, have you read Ari’s latest?"
I really need to catch up to date, at least century-wise on my reading.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology