Skip to main content

Books like friends, should be few and well-chosen.


Waiting at the lights, Cnr Harrington and Macquarie Streets, Hobart. September 2012.

Three books this week, and a real mix to boot!

The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho: This book has apparently sold more than 65 million copies (which puts in the top 15 in sales accoring the the lists I've seen). It has been translated into 169 languages, which makes it the most translated book by a living author. Millions of people have described it as wondrous, life-changing, and unique. I have a few words myself: trite, banal, self-important and mediocre. F.

Four Stories, by Alan Bennett: A collection of four of Alan Bennett's most famous, most admired [long] short stories. All very good, Bennett has a great ear for
dialogue and his capacity to shift from the filthy and hilarious to heartbreaking in a paragraph amazes me. B+.

Age of Iron by Nobel Prize winner J. M. Coetzee: Another fantastic novel that draws together themes of aging, confession, death, freedom, all framed within the wordview of a white liberal woman with cancer in Apartheid South Africa. A-.

Comments

Anonymous said…
Agree with you totally about The Alchemist - I've absolutely no idea what all the fuss is all about. The best thing I can say about it is that it isn't as bad as Coelho's "The Pilgrimage".
Kris McCracken said…
I can only imagine how vapid that book must be!

Popular posts from this blog

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral