I deserved this book. After all my whinging about how all books set in New York about writers were/are terrible, I read Elizabeth Strout’s My Name is Lucy Barton and find myself retracting that outrageous and essentializing claim. Instead let’s agree that almost all books set in New York about writers are terrible – one exception is this one. Which is terrific. Really. Continue reading
Three chapters in to Cynthia D’Aprix Sweeney’s The Nest I checked the publication date (2016) and decided no, despite the nagging feeling, I hadn’t read the book before. Four chapters in I checked this site to be absolutely sure I hadn’t read it before. I have been known to forget things like books I’ve read (or meetings, or words, or…)
on occasion constantly. Trusty site confirmed that it was a “new” read. Continue reading
I have the stomach flu. I’ve been meaning to write up these separate posts for days, but have instead been subsisting on ginger ale and popsicles and general grumpiness. Cue some commentary about a fitting end to 2016.
I did read two novels over the holidays. Jonathan Safran Foer’s Here I Am and Kristin Hannah’s The Nightingale. I have a lot to say about both, but I’m too queasy to muster much, so here’s the abbreviated version for both: don’t bother. Continue reading