Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Omg, Siri Hustvedt's What I Loved is just like the best godamn book I've read in ages. I'm 107 pages shy of utter literary completion so don't give me any of your "Oh yeah, I like the bit at the end where Harry dies" schtick, you nutty internet creeps. It's stupid: the only reason I bought it was because I'm such a SICK Paul Auster completist that after trawling his fiction, non-fiction - even his pseudonymous pulp noir novel - I moved onto his wife's books - pretty messed up, right? But God, I bet even the notes those two scrawl to each other before dashing out to meet bohemian pals for a highbrow latte are busting with enough literary merit to fund the Somerset Maugham Awards for the next few millennia. I'd be over to America like a shot to study such scrawlings at length, if only I had unlimited access to the Hustvedt-Auster garbage cans.