I'm reading Patrick Modiano's So You Don't Get Lost Around The Neighborhood. Halfway through the slim volume which I started this morning and so far I'm unimpressed. Nothing to mull over. I think the greater part of the suspense, anticipation, and mystery that I feel reading it has to do with the fact that he won the Nobel Prize. It's like sitting down next to a friend to watch a film and having them turn to you after a snooze of a first act, saying, "Just wait and see what happens next."
Lately I realized that I've come to a turning point in my appreciation for books and literature. It's been a slow move, but I feel definitively estranged from both the NYC lit world, the MFA lit world, and any other movement or nebulous community of tastes.
It seems strange to me, for the first time in years, that there are people who write poems in journals seeking professorships and fellowships to keep at it, and that these people all know each other and actively compete for the pleasure.
I'm outside the box looking in again. I don't talk to anyone about literature really, yet I'm constantly encountering and picking new things up. Now I just keep my head down editing licensed titles and find my own little things to read. This shouldn't be a big deal but considering I'll hardly even eat somewhere without reading a review first these days, I'm happy that in this at least I've managed to become more confident and unselfconscious. Years in the making, of course.
I'm going to start saying human without pronouncing the "h" for a bit. I'll check back with you on how I feel about that later.