The Abyss, by Marguerite Yourcenour. Historical fiction set in medieval times after the plague. Interesting but a little too didactic and not enough plot, for my taste.
In Ascension, by Martin MacInnes. Sci-fi about a discovery deep in an ocean trench. Space travel, meaning of time, loops, loneliness, very “Arrival-y” mood. But I the prose I found not to my liking, quite repetitive about the inner state of the lead character, and in the end I found it grating.
La religieuse, by Denis Diderot. Didn’t give this a thorough read, because really it is very dated. But I was curious when I saw it on library shelf. Reading about it more interesting than actually reading it?
White Castle, by Orhan Pamuk. The beginning, with its foggy narrator somehow made a slave to Hoja, a rationalist in the Ottoman Sultan’s court (well more complicated but roughly)… sort of like Yourcenour now that I think about it, but much better written, even though there is very little plot. lots of good set pieces, and lots of ambiguity about who is who, and who is writing, nicely done. in the end not enough to really maintain interest though.
Sputnik Sweetheart, by Haruki Murakami. Definitely evoke a nice mood. Talking with friends, it some ways so stereotyped Murakami… the tropes are there in the gender dynamics. But this one was quite philosophically dense, about “knowing” other people (i.e., sputnik) as we pass through the night… and meaning, etc. It did feel a bit cobbled together, with the Sumire and Miu story, then Sumire’s diary/writing, and then the shoplifting boy. They may have been notes he was writing that serendipitously overlapped at some point. Signs and symbols, I guess?
The End of the Story, Lydia Davis. I really enjoyed this deconstruction novel, which I may or may not have read for a book club, after reading Auster.
Ahora me rindo y nada mas, by Alvaro Enrigue, Still in middle of slowly reading this with siblings. Super interesting.
The Old Child, by Jenny Erpenbeck. Kind of an interesting exercise, and maybe there is a deeper meaning about wanting to remain here alive, and not accepting our mortality? But it felt forced.
The Rings of Saturn, by W.G. Sebald. This is what auto-fiction was before Wikipedia? It’s so compelling, and contrived, as he walks along Suffolk coast and reflects on those who have gone before, leaving their traces in the landscape.
Friends of African Village Libraries (I post regularly here)
Michael Kevane 