I just finished reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, one of my many on-target gifts received by Monstro this Christmas, and while I indeed read it to completion: not enough zombies. I was hoping for a big, Hamlet-like ending but didn't get it.
Ultimately, the zombie(s) arc pays off in additional reader satisfaction, because it and they deepen the existant charms/annoyances of the novel, depending on your side of the Jane-Austen fence. Zombies make the Bennetts' frittering worth something: I can't be with him because I'm a zombie-hunter Bride of Death.
Also, the spirit of the illustrations (yes! illustrations!) is willing but the talent is weak. Sorry dude.
Genius: I gave this to Monstro for Christmas and am the first to crack it. One-and-a-half authors in, plus all the preface material, and damned if it isn't positively titular. First I read about my boyfriend, and now I'm on to Master Shakespeare and Sir John Falstaff. Genius is arranged Kabbalahistically so there's quite a bit about that, too. I wonder if Harold Bloom (he's the author / compiler) has seen the movie “Pi: Faith in Chaos”?
Ulysses: Turns out, what you do after re-reading Infinite Jest is re-read Ulysses. But that's OK, because James Joyce and I have been boyfriend-girlfriend since grad school and good buddies since high school, and I would totally make out with him if he wanted to. It's cool. Joyce infuses his own super-dreaminess in Poldy (that's what I call him, too, Dr. Bloom!), which makes him the scene stealer / scenery chewer any time he's around. But, Poldy's such a pussy –alliteration + 5 letters each, ahem, plus, “Ulysses” has a double-s and four of the five letters of pussy, don't think that Mr. Master of Detail didn't think of that, so I'll use the word if I want to, though I don't typically utilize it in my writings, and don't consider myself a “dirty” blogger– that Leopold's wussiness truly renders him a cuckold. Plus, his lukewarm affiliation to Judaism –not via Talmud, doesn't attend synagogue, buys and eats a kidney in his first few scenes– is a turn-off. Also, it is hard to write about Joyce's work without double en-dashes.
Speaking of dirty writers, Monstro also gave me Russell Brand's memoir, My Booky Wook, in which Brand emits the talent and propensity to write pretty well about stuff you'd never otherwise want to read. It's pretty good, and particularly worth a look if you're interested in first-hand accounts of heroin addiction and hunky sex.
There, Fringes, now I've written about dreams and blogging in the past few days.
And yeah, I've been backloading. Meh.