Books I Read July 31st, 2020

Right. What can I tell you, I got kind of sick of this exercise, and stopped keeping track of the books that I've read. Maybe you noticed. Probably you didn't. Anyway, I'm fine, I write and bake bread try not to get Covid (but not that hard) and since the world went insane I've read the following works of literature...

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare – Not bad.

War Music by Christopher Logue – An incomplete recreation of the Illiad, brilliantly capturing the spirit of this foundational human text in vivid colloquial English. Enormously enjoyable to see the the classic figures of myth reworked, with Athena a spoiled, precocious child and Ulysses crooked as an elbow. Alas that it's unfinished, and the best bits never made the page. Still worth your time.

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel – Engaging historical fiction, though I confess I didn't find it to be much more.

The Dragon Waiting by John M. Ford – In an alternate history where Byzantium expanded to the Atlantic (is it alternate history when magic exists, or is that just fantasy?) a rogues gallery tries to keep England free. Probably one of the better fantasy books (I'm going to go with that) I've ever read, Ford has a real talent for plotting, his language is strange and not at all bad, and his take on Richard 3rd is the absolutely original. Lots of fun.

Machines in the Head by Anna Kavan – The collected rantings of a disturbed woman with indisputable literary talent. A lot of the surrounding text on Kavan talks about how strange and alien her writing is, but honestly I found it to be of at type with a lot of of other writers – a lot of Kafkaesque reworkings of her own mental health collapse. It didn't really blow my skirt up but what do I know.

Malicroix by Henri Bosco – A well-meaning but unformed youth finds adventure, himself while house-sitting the shack of a deceased misanthrophic kinsmen. Kinda like if Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote a Gothic romance, but you know, French. I thought it was lovely and weird and charming.

The Translator by John Crowley – A woman recollects 60s academia, her possibly supernatural experiences translating a dissident Russian poet. Some lovely lines, although I confess I tend to prefer Crowley at his more fantastical.

The Moving Target by Ross McDonald – I'll pretty much always read a Lew Archer book to be honest.

Petals of Blood by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o – A murder investigation sprawls into an elaborate chronicle for corruption in post-colonial Kenya. The various viewpoints are vibrant and well-realized, but it's political message (if admirable) is heavy-handed and cuts against the complexity of the story.

Mr. Fortune's Maggot by Sylvia Townsend Warner – A well-meaning if ineffectual Englishman (a stand in for the race) is called to preach Christ on a Polynesian island. Warner has a beautiful style of prose, and there are some lovely and thoughtful passages contained herein. I couldn't help but feel, however, that (as with The Corner that Held Them) her clear contempt for Christianity makes the satire feel mean-spirited and somewhat trite.

He Died with his Eyes Open by Derek Raymond – Our nameless protagonist (I've done that!) investigates the brutal murder of a down and out writer (the author's obvious stand in). The crime bits are clever and nasty in the best sort of ways, but a great deal of the book consists of the detective listening to the victim lament the hypocrisy and brutality of human existence, a form of writing which tires me quite quickly.