I haven’t picked up a book in about 3 weeks! So I have every intention of making this weekend a book-y one. I am sitting in my favorite corner of the garden, with Jose Saramago’s Death with Interruptions, as my own little way of honoring this prolific writer’s life. He died on June 18 at the age of 87.
I have searched high and low for his book Blindness, after watching the movie, but no luck. No story has struck me more about the human condition and the moral questions involved in our instincts for self-preservation. [pretentious, me?]
About two weekends ago, I resolved to read Ali Smith’s The Accidental. So I took it down off my shelf and carried it to the breakfast table. My mother saw it and said, “The Accidental what?”
I said, “The Accidental nothing.”
She: How can nothing be accidental?
I: No. Not like that. I mean, it’s The Accidental. Just that.
She: What a silly title. It’s incomplete. What kind of a book is that to read?
My father chimes in: And what is she (girl on the cover) holding in her hand? A gun? Is she dead? Did she shoot herself? [?!]
I: No. I think it’s a camera. And she means ‘the accidental’ in the same way I would say ‘the unfortunate’ or ‘the monumental’.
Both parents sighed.
I wonder who I get this book obsession from?
After conquering Saramago, I have Ali Smith lined up. And speaking of, I have been having dreams about Zadie Smith! Will no one buy me her Changing My Mind: Occasional Essays?
Happy weekend, all!