July 10th, 2016


(no subject)

Hot weather reading needs to be chosen very carefully because what would be merely meh in rational weather quite often becomes bleh. Like peaches, going rotten before you know it. I realized half a chapter in that Timothy Mo's Sour Sweet would depress (like White Teeth, grimy grotty London from an immigrant pov.) Suspected that Barbara Vine's The Chimney Sweeper's Boy might fantod but the first one I read didn't, so... She's lovely and easy to read- not brainless but painless. But with this one, gradually the oogey feelings started up, source unknown, and so- figured the gimmick, skimmed the last bit, put it aside. There still seems one unaccounted-for corpse there, but weather-brain couldn't keep track of all the changing names and changing families and thus couldn't be arsed to go back and figure who's were who.

I did like one goodreader's comment that Gerald Candless probably wrote Iris Murdoch-type novels and that the characters in the book are Murdoch characters. Only half-true, I fancy: the various male love interests were mostly too decent and nice (sometimes unbelievably so). Once a romance writer, always a romance writer, and we must end up coupled two by two. But Gerald and his daughters, yes, certainly.

So now, suicidally, I want to read more Vine. Have started A Natural History of Dragons instead, and find it dull.
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