…the death sigh of the last page (& other stories)

Despite being a writer of sorts, I rarely blog about books, because I consider myself a terrible reader.  It takes me ages, often years to get through certain books & I studied art not literature & I spend more time watching films.  So I don’t often feel I have much to contribute to talk of literature, particularly the classic stuff.

Hows ever.  I finished reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez at 1am this morn.  All great books should make a person feel how that made me feel.  Emotionally exhausted and yet in a state of awe, like I could be bothered to keep breathing cos stuff like this exists.

The last line in the book is key.  The last concept which must somehow put the whole thing in the palm of your hand, and make you peer at it with a goofy look on your fizzog.  I hate good books which end badly.  It is difficult to end things, like breaking up with somebody fuckin lovely.  You have to choose your words really well.

I love magic realism, because there is some inner truth, like a Francis Bacon painting.  I love Gunter Grass, even though his novels are a real slog for me at times, eventually it’s all worth it, and before I know it, I’ve stumbled upon another of his doorstep sized works in Oxfam, and now it’s sat on my shelf sniggering “When the deuce are you gonna find the time to read me?”

I’m not sure what my conclusion should be here, why big up writers who are already pretty mega?  I would love to support up-and-coming indie authors, I’m just such a terrible reader.  But right after I finish the next 20 books in my pile I’ll get stuck in.  I’ll save Gunter for when I get sent to prison (I just finished watching Oz, now there’s a McManus shaped hole in my life, I’ll have to crack on with The Wire S3 to get over it).

Now I’m off on a tangent/trainwreck & talking on my none-specialities, another one is music, I can’t say owt intelligent about it.  Just what is amazing.  War on Drugs, jeebs I love them so much, it’s like my soul is on fire.  I always make sure I’m mates with a few music anoraks, and I let them enlighten me on good stuff.

One of my favourite creatures for this porpoise is in a band himself, they’re called Souvaris (listen to their final album here, it is incredible), when I saw them live last it was like a magical drug.  This is how the good shit (books, films, music) should make you feel.  Like life is worth the bother.

If I could ever make just one person feel like that, it would be priceless.

Over & owt



2 responses to “…the death sigh of the last page (& other stories)

  1. What a great bite of “here’s how I feel right now” human unorthedoxy. I love authors that wear-me-out. I usually find that type of lit in the 19th century or in some “hidden” bookshelf on a dusty book rack.

  2. Thanks, yes that is the reason old bookshops stacked to the eaves are so enigmatic. All that potential just waiting…

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