Finished The House of Mirth. The writing became refreshingly clean. Self found herself crying unexpectedly. Not as hard as she did when she read Janet Lewis’ remarkable The Wife of Martin Guerre (standing in her kitchen in Fremont, CA: a sob-fest to end all sob-fests, while her not-even-three-year-old son played unconcernedly at her feet), but nevertheless it was the first time in years that self had ever cried while reading a book.
Began Bernhard Schlink’s The Reader. She does not know how Schlink pulled it off, writing about this extremely difficult subject. But oh, how powerfully he inhabits the point of view of the narrator, who at the beginning of the novel is 15.
She’s been re-reading the pieces of a student in a recently concluded UCLA Extension writing class, who has decided to apply to a Creative Writing Program, and for whom self has agreed to write a letter of recommendation.
She continued reading the signed copy of Rosebud and Other Stories by Wakako Yamauchi, edited by Lillian Howan and published by the University of Hawaii.
She has so many stories saved up for dear blog readers! But now is not yet the time.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.
