Do you ever read a book, then realise about a month later that you can barely remember anything about it, or differentiate it from the last half-dozen things you’ve read? I’m bumping into this far too often, and I find it a bit depressing, since it leaves me feeling that a lot of that reading time is meaningless. Yes, it’s fun at the time, and every so often a book will really manage to jam it crampons into the rock-face of my clunky brain, but I’d really like to feel that I’m absorbing something from what I read.
That’s the background behind this little mid-week post: I’m going to attempt to make a few notes about everything I plough through. These will probably be less like reviews and more like general thoughts on what I thought worked about each book: it will be about trying to work out how good writing happens, not about assigning arbitrary numbers of stars to books, then giving away the ending.
(Mentioning star ratings, does anyone know where they came from? I want to know whose bright idea it was to judge things based on between one and five massive balls of blazing nuclear fire. Okay, stars are pretty, but I don’t think they hold strong opinions about art.)
Anyway, in a moment I'm going to plonk the first of these pseudo-reviews on here. I know it will mostly be a long, impenetrable ramble, but these are mostly for my own benefit, and a blog just seems like a sensible way to organise them.