Books and that.


More specifically, ‘The Blind Assassin’ by Margaret Atwood. This isn’t a book review though, I’ve just finished reading it. IT WAS IMMENSE. I still find it fascinating how much a book can do to you. It’s such a small(ish) thing – you can hold the entire story, the whole world that’s been created in your hands, yet it does so much. This one made me cry, and, like in so many stories where there’s one main narrator, it feels like you’ve lost a best friend when it comes to its conclusion. Someone – usually fictional – has been sharing secrets with you for quite a few turns of the page, and, even though it’s usually fictional, I find it awfully hard to just give that up as soon as the book is complete. In the case of ‘The Blind Assassin’, I do rather want the book to just keep going and going and going, because how can a whole world collapse just because the amount of pages says it does?

My next literary ascent is into the world of Mr James Joyce. We’re starting off small, just ‘Dubliners’ so far, in an attempt to get accustomed to his style. ‘Ulysses’ is to be thrown into the mix after ploughing through ‘The Odyssey’. I’m not going to attempt ‘Finnegan’s Wake’ though, I’m not that stupid.

I have yet to feel a sense of achievement instead of a sense of remorse at the finishing of a book. What does everyone else feel?

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One Response

  1. Margaret Atwood has a special talent for causing you to become emotionally involved. Her books leave feelings that stay with you for weeks after you finish them.

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