What are you reading these days?

The past week, I've read The Catcher in the Rye, Krasznahorkai and Szirtes's Satantango, and John Williams' Stoner.

Catcher was a little disappointing, given the huge amount of space it takes up in the zeitgeist. It's almost laughable the associations it's developed over the years, some sort of signifier of toxic masculinity and antisocial tendencies, when it's just the sad story of a posturing boy running from pain. Holden is infuriating and stupider than he is clever, but from the go, it's clear that everything he says and does comes from a place of fear and alienation. It was masterfully composed, but, while I understand the crumpling of the ending, I wish there had been any sort of resolution.

Satantango's first chapter was one of the most obtuse stretches of any book I've read. It took me about an hour, out of the read's total five, to understand it on any level. From chapter two onward, though, it was captivating and beautiful and horrible and dreadful, while maintaining a shred of hopefulness toward the end. The Esti chapter had me enraptured despite pity, disgust, and horror, that poor lost soul. This translation is incredible. Perhaps it captures an eighth of the original Hungarian, but within itself, it's a monument of a novel. Breathtaking in every way. The nested twists of the plot, the richness of desolation in the descriptive passages, the shallow reality of each character, I loved it.

As I write this comment, I finished Stoner just minutes ago. It's magnificently written, it truly does seem that William Stoner is writing his own story from outside himself. Really, awfully sorrowful, I don't understand the discussion of Stoner as a hero, beyond the pitiful "existential hero" archetype. At the same time, I couldn't help reading the next page. Edith unpleasantly reminded me of Cathy from East of Eden, though at least a little more fleshed out. The visions of Stoner's romantic love were beautiful and hopeful in exactly the way you'd expect to collapse within years. It's a true tragedy, a sincere and loving portrayal of a mediocre failure.

I recently finished Light Chaser by Peter F Hamilton and Gareth L Powell. As you'd expect from those two it's full-blown widescreen space opera. It's not incredibly deep or meaningful although skims some questions about what it means to be human and alive. But it is nicely paced and exciting, with some interesting scenarios and characters. It's not long (unlike most of Hamilton's output), I'd recommend it as a short, fun read.

I hadn't read any Powell before so I also read his Embers of War which was vaguely good. Not outstanding, felt a bit cut-and-paste of some classic characters and tropes; but light on the tech side of things and the final resolution felt very tacked-on and unbelievable.

After those two I just started Adrian Tchaikovsky's Elder Race which is oddly very similar to some parts of Light Chaser. Tchaikovsky often does things a little differently though, and it's already more interesting than Light Chaser despite me only being a few chapters in.

I am also regularly reading the wonderful Petra and the glorious, sublime, creepy latest book from the amazing Oliver Jeffers, There's a Ghost in This House. Everyone in our house, regardless of age, loves Oliver Jeffers. I feel quite strongly about picture books being things adults can and should enjoy. Not all of them - Peppa Pig's Big Sound Book can get in the sea - but things by authors like Jeffers, Jon Klassen, Bethan Woolvin, Brita Teckentrup and especially Shaun Tan (Rules of Summer is just incredible) tell universal stories in a way which prose, or even comics, can't. The distinction between picture book and comic is fairly subtle and not always clear depending on the work, but I do think they are different - and I do love comics too, don't get me wrong. It's funny because I don't like short prose stories at all, but I love sitting down for five or ten minutes to enjoy a good picture book (doubly so if I'm reading it with the Kid).

Spoilers from a 1984 comic book.

I'm at volume 28 of Swamp Thing, the ninth of the Allan Moore era. I tried reading it from the start, but it was just not that good. The big revelation is that Swamp Thing is not a transformation of Alec Holland, there is no way for Swamp Thing to ever recover its "original" form. Alec Holland died when his lab exploded. Swamp Thing is the result of the swamp learning and reproducing Alec's consciousness using nothing but vegetation. This opens up a lot of discussions on the nature of consciousness and identity. There are environmental themes as well. It's pretty awesome. And the art is beautiful and detailed in a way that is only really possible with hand drawing.

I'm finishing The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye, the second book of the second Millennium trilogy.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is the first of the Millennium trilogy of books. The original author, Stieg Larsson, died just before the third book was finished and another guy took it over. Afterwards, he added three more books. The first of the second trilogy was alright, but this second is a fucking mess.

It reads like fan-fic. The lead character, who is extremely petite, if not frail, has been taking boxing lessons and all through the rest of the series... but in this book she's breaking people down like Jason Bourne.

I'll eventually do the final book to get it over with, but its a shame that this book exists.

Before this book, I read Richard Hooker's, *M*A*S*H*, which was good. It was more a collection of short stories or vignettes (generous) -- but it was fun. The characters aren't totally like the series, but more like the movie. I won't read any of the other books. I believe he wrote the second and gave input for the third, which was ghostwritten, then was completely uninvolved for the rest.

Next up will either be The Drowning Pool, book 2 of the Lew Archer series from Ross Macdonald. Lew Archer starts out as a cheap knock-off of Philip Marlowe, but eventually finds his own voice. If I don't do this, then I'll quickly go through The Scout Mindset by Julia Galef then tuck back into the next Matthew Scudder book.