Rachman’s prose flows like water, and he’s got the gift for creating fascinating characters in spades. While the italicized newspaper history passages informed the story, they felt a little tacked on to me, though if I was a gambling man, I’d venture that Rachman had some outside editorial input on that count—ie, “people don’t buy short stories, we’ve got to tie these things together, etc”. The book doesn’t need them.
Ted and Laura are going through the pains of being married, he’s getting fat, and she’s getting boring, plus she brings him ice cream each night, and longs for him, she rubs his crotch with her foot while they watch TV. Ted is a computer programmer, and on a trip to San Francisco he longs to get a blow job from the stewardess, and even thinks of leaving Laura. It’s a common thought, all men think this way, and if I get one email saying otherwise, I call bullshit.
A giant, roaring WW2 novel. The Invisible Bridge centers around Andras Levi, a Hungarian-born architectural student in Paris, who become entangled in rampant anti-semitism, political machinations, and an ill-advised love affair. The Invisible Bridge is a broad-shouldered, Tolstoyian epic crossing personal tragedies and successes with international turmoil. A big book and a good one.
The Victorians were completely obsessed with death and mourning, and so even at Christmas, with all its emphasis on family, gift-giving, religion, etc., there was still this dark undercurrent. So holiday music for me is always a slightly moody affair, particularly since I don’t have too much use for the awful crap that gets blasted in malls and coffee shops this time of year.
When I started the reading adventure on my own, picking my own books, I started collecting the Hardy Boys mysteries. There they are on the bookcase above the bureau in the bedroom that I shared with my brother … six … twelve … twenty-four … extending like the beige walls of a new Rome … an infallible barrier against the scary adult world that I didn’t understand.
It’s rare that good fiction actually gets published, as there is a lack in the attention spans of today’s readers, and the gatekeepers just can’t afford to publish a novel that will give them great reviews, but no sales. Their overhead is too high, they’ve screwed themselves. This year when I got a copy of the phenomenal The Fates Will Find Their Way (on sale 2/11) I nearly lost my mind at just how amazing it was.