Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction, by Charles Baxter
I started reading it a while ago---completely fascinating, it's blowing my mind in several ways.
But now, every time I randomly hear the Talking Heads song he named the book after, I start to think it's a sign pointing me to Minnesota. And by "every time," I mean the two times that that's happened recently.
1) I'm watching the third season of Six Feet Under (don't tell me anything!) on DVD, and in the episode where it's Ruth's birthday, that song plays while they're all dancing.
2) I have my iPod on shuffle, and it comes up halfway through my bus ride home from work.
Here's your ticket pack your bag: time for jumpin' overboard
The transportation is here
Anyway, I mean to talk about the book (and several others) at some point. Right now, my brain is a warm gelatinous substance, and I'm going to drown my anxieties/exhaustion in tonight's new episode of Lost.
PS---Of course:
Everything's stuck together
I don't know what you expect staring into the TV set
*
PPS---Books I'm reading right now (I'm doing that bad thing where I move back and forth every few days):
Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction, by Charles Baxter
Little, by David Treuer
Books I'm almost finished with:
Believers, by Charles Baxter---I'm reading the title novella at the end
An Explanation for Chaos, by Julie Schumacher---I'm reading the last, title story
CivilWarLand in Bad Decline, by George Saunders---I'm reading the novella at the end: "Bounty"
Hmm...I think I've discovered a pattern. The problem is with me, not with the books. I zipped through all the stories up until the last of each, and then I started trading back and forth. Maybe it's really a subconscious effort to prolong the experience?
Book(s) I plan to start very soon, here:
Concertina, by M.J. Fitzgerald
(Post in progress...Lost started!)
2 comments:
I'm doing that too, sort of. I keep reading half a book and then starting a new one. And they're good books. I want to finish them, but don't.
First Impression of an Artists Memoir
I met a woman who can be described as an artist who has the ability to dress a naked canvas with the sacred garments of adornment, as if her imagination knew no bounds, or is foreign to its own meaning.
I was transfixed in marvel as her paintbrush navigated the surface of blankness gracefully, detailing a mind of its own, as the strokes traveled across desert plains of white to reach the height of nirvana.
The gentle motion of her wrist, became the first inviting breeze of spring to acknowledge truth within her secret definition of art. She painted an image so profound, that even words were at a loss in describing the tears of such beauty.
A gifted mind, merging colorful hues as if she described my visions of unity within mankind, through the simple translation of depicting passion in its youthful state.
One woman alone, giving birth to the creative flow of inspiration that will soon find its way into the hearts of the next, unborn future artists of the world...
you have a very beautiful writing style. stay wonderful.
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