2019 Sum-Sum-Summertime: What Are You Reading, My Good People?

I read a bunch of stuff over the summer - a list that makes me look well parochial. Ho hum.

Alan Moore - V for Vendetta. The concept is enough to make it a classic but it's stretched out pretty thin by the end.

Robin Ince - I'm A Joke and So Are You. I find Ince kind of annoying but this is gently wise and funny enough to mitigate the worst of his excesses.

Caryl Lewis - Martha, Jack & Shanco. I went to Anglesey so wanted to read some Welsh-language literature. This aims for a Steinbeckian universalism but doesn't quite have the courage of its convictions. The nature writing was beautiful.

Richard King - The Lark Ascending. This should have been my *thing* - activism, music and landscape - but it never quite, well, took flight.

Robert Macfarlane - Landmarks. I fell out with Macfarlane around the time of The Old Ways but, compared to the above, the existential nature of Macfarlane's commitment mattered again. Beautiful.

Russell Hoban - Riddley Walker. As a reading experience, I found it tough but my brain has been like a huge resonating chamber since I put it down.

Keiron Pym - Jumpin' Jack Flash: David Litvinoff and the Rock and Roll Underworld. This was the *one*. During an obsessive pursuit (to use Richard Holmes' phrase) of his quarry across the world and down the toilet of London's 60s underworld, Pym ravels and unravels the riddle of Litvinoff and with it the history of the Jewish East End, the Krays, the Chelsea set, Performance. Litvinoff comes across as manic, inventive, borrowed from death.

I finished The Beginning of Spring last night. It was a very fine novel and a pleasure to read. More so than any of the authors I read, Fitzgerald achieves her effects so subtly and organically that it is impossible for me to put my finger on the artifice that supports her art. She is economical of details, but there is no sense of sparsity or strain. She frequently chooses the precise word needed to carry an exact meaning, but her prose is never fussy. Her characters emerge clearly and well-formed, and do not seem overdone or underdone. I stand in awe of her excellence and cannot explain it.

btw, the autumnal equinox is almost upon us. A new thread of books, mists and mellow fruitfulness shall soon be in order.

I'm now reading another novel by Sicilian author, Leonardo Sciascia. This one is To Each His Own.

The next 'What Are You Reading' thread here:

2019 Autumn: What Are You Reading as the Light Drifts Southward?

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