No longer under any obligation to spend every waking hour either studying or pretending to study, I can once again spend the majority of my (sober) free time with my nose stuck in a book. I passed my exams by the skin of my teeth... I ended up with a 2:1, which doesn't quite sound like scraping through, but I can assure you that with a 60% passing grade and a 59% mark in one of the modules, it is scraping through with bloodied knees.
And so, unfettered and free, I managed to get through no less than three novels over the course of last week's holiday. The first was Hakuri Murakami's After Dark, purchased in the airport and read on the plane. I always feel cheated when I finish one of Murakami's novels; their brevity may be key to their beauty but they leave me hungry for more. An English teacher of mine once flattered me with a similar accusation but it was years before I got the reference - he marked me down to a B- and scribbled a note saying that my story was infuriatingly like one of Mr. Wilde's cigarettes.* I thought he was just being a cunt.
I read Nicola Barker's Darkmans next, which I'd bought on a whim because it was big and heavy. It meant that I had to carry a shoulder bag rather than a handbag for the week and that I developed a squint and a hunch, but it was worth it. It was clever, confusing and very very funny. The nightmarish images of Scogin the jester seeped into my own dreams, however, and it made for an uncomfortable week's sleep. I believe Ms. Barker has penned a few others so I'll be down to Rathmines library with a list on Monday morning.
A little light reading then for the flight home; Siobhán Dowd's The London Eye Mystery. It had shades of Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time in that the narrator, Ted, shares many of Christopher's idiosyncrasies. He makes for an endearing, engaging and convincing storyteller and I found myself reading right through the safety announcements on board our Boeing 737, and all the way through the flight home (despite being a confirmed narcoleptic when it comes to public transport). The book is aimed at 9-12 year olds, and as I am all of 27 I feel I should pass it on to someone else who might enjoy it. So if anyone's got a spacky kid like me at home who'd treasure my copy, email me and I'll post it anonymously, and give them a mystery all of their own.
And so, unfettered and free, I managed to get through no less than three novels over the course of last week's holiday. The first was Hakuri Murakami's After Dark, purchased in the airport and read on the plane. I always feel cheated when I finish one of Murakami's novels; their brevity may be key to their beauty but they leave me hungry for more. An English teacher of mine once flattered me with a similar accusation but it was years before I got the reference - he marked me down to a B- and scribbled a note saying that my story was infuriatingly like one of Mr. Wilde's cigarettes.* I thought he was just being a cunt.
I read Nicola Barker's Darkmans next, which I'd bought on a whim because it was big and heavy. It meant that I had to carry a shoulder bag rather than a handbag for the week and that I developed a squint and a hunch, but it was worth it. It was clever, confusing and very very funny. The nightmarish images of Scogin the jester seeped into my own dreams, however, and it made for an uncomfortable week's sleep. I believe Ms. Barker has penned a few others so I'll be down to Rathmines library with a list on Monday morning.
A little light reading then for the flight home; Siobhán Dowd's The London Eye Mystery. It had shades of Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time in that the narrator, Ted, shares many of Christopher's idiosyncrasies. He makes for an endearing, engaging and convincing storyteller and I found myself reading right through the safety announcements on board our Boeing 737, and all the way through the flight home (despite being a confirmed narcoleptic when it comes to public transport). The book is aimed at 9-12 year olds, and as I am all of 27 I feel I should pass it on to someone else who might enjoy it. So if anyone's got a spacky kid like me at home who'd treasure my copy, email me and I'll post it anonymously, and give them a mystery all of their own.
*A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? (The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde)
