THE FOREVER WAR, pp. 319 – 320

For some reason, self is still reading this book. She is down to the last pages. It’s terrible. What self means is: Filkins doesn’t have any dead spots in his book (Only, dead people. BWAH. HA. HA)

Before this, she was tempted to blog about a dozen times. Each time she told herself: At this rate, you’ll be blogging for every page. Every page. You’ll be on a plane to Los Angeles, booksigning even, and you’ll be writing your 37th post on The Forever War. Woman, get a grip!

Okay, less than 50 pages to go. Which means, only about a dozen more posts on Iraq and IEDs and marines shooting at people and Iraqis hating Americans and sectarian violence and . . .

Patience, people! The end is slowly approaching!

Here’s the passage that self simply couldn’t resist posting:

“Can you imagine that anyone would ever leave his home, for any reason?” Hanoon said, waving a cigarette as he spoke. “Only bad people and gypsies live in tents. What can you say about women having to live here?”

As Hanoon “prepared to leave his ancestral home . . . not a single one of his . . . neighbors stopped by to say goodbye.”

And that is all.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

 

 

A Break From Filkins: Norma Watkins’s THE LAST RESORT

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THE LAST RESORT, by Norma Watkins: New From the University Press of Mississippi

The past two winters have been so great because she’s managed to spend them in Mendocino.

There are writers a-plenty here, and in Fort Bragg, just a few miles north.

She bought her copy of The Last Resort at Gallery Bookshop’s annual Spring Fling (when every book in the story is 15% off) and she got it signed by the author herself.

On the frontispiece is a quote from Vladimir Nabokov’s Speak, Memory:

Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.

The book begins in 1943. The narrator’s father, a naval officer, is leaving his family to go to war. The narrator is seven:

War had turned the clock back. We were poor again, and the Chevrolet, stuffed with boxes and suitcases, was all we had left. Two pet chickens rode in a crate in the trunk. Mother drove. Side by side in the backseat sat my sister, Mary Elizabeth, four, our nurse, Marie, and furious me.

Lovely narrative voice. And such a gripping opening scene.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

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