I'm having a grand time re-reading the works of H.H.Munro ("Saki"). His Edwardian sensibilities and sardonic humor are just the sort of qualities I enjoy in his fiction. Their admirable brevity, too, of course.
Novels are fine, but to really 'get into' a novel, when reading just a chapter is likely nowadays to put me to sleep, seems to me too big an investment in time. Or so it would appear, for the nonce, while we're at home, with a myriad little chores to attend to. On an ocean cruise, yes, novels would be just the thing. (It could just be a case of the old attention span getting shorter with age, ja?)
Lately I've taken to resurrecting the great masters of the short story from their resting-places in my library -- Jorge Luis Borges, and Antonio Tabucchi; once in a while Alberto Moravia; Richard Yates, Andre Dubus, and Raymond Carver; John Updike's early stuff; and my favorite at college, Donald Barthelme.
I am putting aside Chekhov and de Maupassant for the time being. Will get back to them later, along with James Joyce's 'Dubliners'.
A compendium of images - most original, some not - words, and links, sometimes musical, gathered for the exclusive enjoyment of friends and relatives, some old, and some new.
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