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Muh boiz

Us, this morning. Yes, it’s the first time I’ve been becatted by both at once. Yes, it’s adorable. Yes, sitting in one position for so long, I put my back out and had to take the good Ibuprofen. The one with codeine.

Yes, I can get that over the counter here. w00t!

So let’s just continue chewing over Deborah HH’s question from the previous thread: she is soliciting recommendations for good American novels. Let me think. It’s been a while since I read fiction.

When I was about 15 and living on a farm in the middle of nowhere in long Summer, I got hold of one of those 100 books you must read to be an Educated Person and tried to slog my way through it. I don’t remember how far I got before I gave up in despair, but I do remember the book that did for me: The Bridge of San Luis Rey. Feh.

I recommend Call of the Wild (dog -> wolf) or White Fang (wolf -> dog). I like Jack London.

Just about anything by Twain or Vonnegut. Well, maybe not late Vonnegut. Okay, Salinger. I guess. Nothing by Hemingway. Muh Southern representation, Flannery O’Connor.

The one I used to re-read every year but don’t necessarily recommend: The Snake Pit (the movie, as movies tend, doesn’t do it justice). The best book I absolutely don’t recommend because it’s pure nightmare fuel: Johnny Got His Gun. I hate murder mysteries, but reading Silence of the Lambs was the first time I ever stood up out of a chair in shock with a book in my hands (hated the movie).

I don’t know. I can’t dredge any more up. I’m rusty. I have a feeling I would’ve been able to write on this topic at great length thirty years ago. At some point, I unconsciously decided I don’t have time to read about things that didn’t happen.

August 25, 2020 — 7:17 pm
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