Kategori: Aardwolf – one hit wonders

Jeg har hatt lyst til å lese Vilde Bjerkes biografi om hennes far en stund, men har liksom ikke kommet så langt som til å kjøpe den. Her om dagen var jeg på biblioteket for å låne Bjerkes samlede dikt og fant fram Du visste om et land i samme slengen, jeg tenkte at det jo ikke er nødvendig å kjøpe alle bøker man skal lese heller.

Desverre stemte det litt for godt. Boka var litt skuffende, selv om jeg ikke helt kan sette fingeren på hvorfor, og jeg kommer derfor neppe til å ha lyst til å lese den igjen og vil gladelig levere eksemplaret tilbake til Deichmanske. Jeg visste lite om Bjerkes liv på forhånd, så sånn sett lærte jeg en del nytt, men var allikevel altså noe skuffet. Det er mulig jeg hadde helt feil forhåpninger, blandt annet var jeg lite imponert over Vilde Bjerkes språkføring, men det er vel egentlig urimelig å vente at hun skal skrive eksepsjonellt godt bare fordi hennes far gjorde det.

I went to the library to borrow André Bjerke’s collected poems Monday, and picked up a few new (well, new to me) comic books at the same time. Castle Waiting was one of them, and a very good read it was, too. I’ve made a reservation on volume two, there only seem to be two, actually, which is a pity, but can’t be helped.

In which we are not sure quite what to think

I’ve been meaning to try reading Rankin for a long time, and so I borrowed Knots and Crosses from my mother some time this spring an now finally got around to it. And I don’t know quite what to think. It’s engaging, I’ll give Rankin that, and having to put it away at arrival at work with only five pages to go was not good – I contemplated hiding in the ladies’ until I’d finished it (though didn’t). But there was less Edinburgh flavour than I’d been led to believe (that’s obviously not Rankin’s fault, it’s a miscommunication between me and the people I’ve heard about the series from). And I’m not entirely sure that I like John Rebus. Or rather, I’m not entirely sure I respect him, which is almost worse. This is partly due to my usual lack of enthusiasm at any sort of infidelity (Rebus goes home with another woman after starting a tentative relationship with a colleague – not a very serious breach of trust, perhaps, but enough for me to lose respect), but partly something else which I can’t quite define.

So. Not entirely sure. I think I might read at least one more Rebus book and see whether my interest vanes or vaxes. If the former, I’m likely to give the series up as a bad job…

In which we are entertained.

I pick up some odd books. David C. Taylor’s Zoovet: The Life of a Wildlife Vet may not be the oddest of them, but it at least seems to be out of print. Which is really a pity because it was highly enjoyable. Taylor describes, in anecdotal fashion, the trials and tribulations of a vet specializing in exotic animals. The style is reminiscent of Gerald Durrell (and you know I enjoy his books)

A very different sort of travelogue compared with the ones I normally read, Tim Mackintosh-Smith’s Travels with a Tangerine had me variously fascinated, spellbound and laughing out loud. The focus on a world quite foreign to me and also the temporal confusion resulting from the change, or mostly lack thereof, between Ibn Battutah’s time and ours made this a very refreshing read. As a bonus, the author has a wonderfully dry sense of humour and a gift for understatement. Quite definitely one to recommend.

How disappointing. I love travel books, and I love travel books about the UK above all, which is why I was looking forward to reading A Fête Worse than Death by Iain Aitch, however, the book was a bit of a disappointment. I’m hard pressed to put my finger on exactly why Aitch’s writing is not engaging. He includes liberal amounts of anecdotes, enough dialogue to please me and visits precisely the sort of events whose description I’d be likely to find interesting. He even travels the way I would, by public transport or by convincing people to give him lifts. And still I continually found my attention drifting. A pity, really.

In which we go spying.

The second book borrowed from Theresa was Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh. I really don’t have a lot to say about this one either. I enjoyed it is praise enough. One thing I wasn’t quite happy with was that the child psychologist seemed to make a point – worth noting, I thought – of how Harriet was less able to concentrate on what was actually happening around her when she was taking notes all the time, and I felt that that point was never really taken up again. But that was really all I had to complain about, and it wasn’t very important at that.

In which we revert to childhood, briefly.

Theresa forced (ok, so I didn’t exactly protest loudly, I think my response to «You really must borrow..» was «Yes, please!») a couple of American classics on me the last time I visited and I’ve just finished two. The first was Charlotte’s Web, which was sweet and touching and that’s pretty much all I have to say about it.

In which we are enchanted in a soberly fashion.

Waiting for Snow in Havana: Confessions of a Cuban Boy had to wait, half-read, on the shelf while I made my way through Hobb and Fforde. This was an unwarranted slight on my part, and I apologise. Eire describes his childhood in Cuba in vivid detail and on occasion you almost feel the sun on your face as you watch him and his brother blow up lizards. From his father – who thinks he is the reincarnation of a French king – to the tiny figure of Castro as he addresses the people, the book invokes a magical – though by no means problem-free – childhood turned upside down because of a revolution.