Disastrous Reading - or, What caused my reading slump.
Quite a while back, I read and loved Mark Dunn's Ella Minnow Pea. Imagine my happiness when I discovered that the library had another book by him--Ibid: A Life. Imagine my dismay when I discovered, 76 pages in, that I just couldn't read another page.
I should have known better--any book that consists only of footnotes of another (fictitious) book is bound to be annoying. It did have some really, really funny moments--looking back through the book, I marked a lot of pages. But ultimately, even with all of the funny bits, I wanted to find Mark Dunn and shake him. Or throw the book across the room. (Neither of which I did, because a) I don't know Mark Dunn, and b) it was a library book). I settled for returning the book to the library.
It wasn't that it was badly written. I just usually can't stand books that seem to be aware of themselves. (This is also why I can't stand Denzel Washington--I always get the feeling that he is playing Denzel Washington playing someone else. Hmmmmm. I might not be explaining this very well). I don't like it when I can imagine the author sitting at his desk, looking at a finished page, and chuckling, "I am so bloody clever. This will slay my readers." (This is why I can only read Tom Robbins once in a very great while. And Kurt Vonnegut, for that matter. Although Vonnegut strikes me as extremely crotchety, and less pleased with himself, so I don't find him as annoying).
Maybe Welcome to Higby will be better.
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