I've been absent for a while due to illness (yay, spring allergies and wonky sinuses) and well, how should I put this, an old lover. Yes, I fell prey again to the wily seduction of (da da dum) fiction. The book was so good, in fact, that I can't shake it. I think about it while I bathe and sleep. And, worst upon worst, it was a thriller. I don't usually fall for serial killa thrillas, but Sieg Larsson is/was a master. Just finished The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and it was riveting: 600 pages in 5 days. That is record for me because I have kids so I usually only read before bed. Ol' Sieg had me reading in the potty, at stop lights, and while I played Sir Topham Hatt as my children raced like really useful engines up and down the sidewalk on their bikes. It was goooooood.
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (Vintage)
But, now I have returned to Bruce Chatwin. I will not review/blog about the tattooed lady because that is not in the scope of my mission here. One huge difference between Chatwin and Larsson: narrative. Chatwin rambles both physically and semantically through villages in 1960s Patagonia with a veiled purpose, but little story. I hope it picks up because I have 3 more texts to read before June 21 when I fly to Buenos Aires for my first MFA residency.
(I promise not to stray again until late July on vacation when I will, by God, pick up the Larsson sequels.)