Self can write “noir.” And enjoys it.
Self is considering writing something about an interrogation.
Self hugely enjoys watching the Golden Globes: Not only do these awards cover both movies and television, the event seems less staid than the Oscars. Maybe because the stars get to sit in groups and drink, which helps loosen them up. Self fell in love with: the bright yellow worn by Paula Patton, the deep red gown worn by Reese Witherspoon, and the unexpectedness of Elizabeth McGovern’s blue and black gown. Madonna wore a rather demure look this evening (She is so tiny! But her arms are as ropy as any sailor’s). The one disappointment was Emily Blunt, whose hair looked awful. And self didn’t understand Frieda Pinto’s exaggerated eye make-up. “Vamp” is certainly not the look for this actress, whose appeal is her radiant innocence. Some of the actresses looked like they had put on pounds, others (like Michelle Williams) seemed to be shrinking. Of the men, self appreciated George Clooney (Dapper as always), Colin Firth (He is tall!), Ricky Gervais (Really liked his deep burgundy suit) and Rob Lowe. By the end of the evening, self had decided she really wants to catch an episode of “Homeland.”
All the books she’s read thus far have been novels. Despite an unpromising start, self grew to really like James Collins’ Beginner’s Greek. She was grateful to have discovered John Burnham Schwartz’s The Commoner, but was really disappointed by the stagy plotting of the novel’s last third. She was also ambivalent about Peter Ho Davies’ The Welsh Girl. While she loved the characters, the narrative point of view jumped around quite confusingly. Self feels that novels, in general, are unwieldy: most contemporary novelists end up running out of steam long before the last page. This was not the case with Harry Mulisch’s The Assault or Bernhard Schlink’s The Reader (but then, these last two novels were both on the short end — more like novellas)
Yesterday, she began reading Margaret Atwood’s story collection, Moral Disorder. Today, she decided to put it aside after realizing that she’d gotten through the first 100 pages without knowing: a) what the stories were about; or b) who the stories were narrated by.
Next on her reading list: James McBride’s memoir, The Color of Water.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.