What does it mean to be human? It’s perhaps one of the hardest questions one can ask oneself, or anyone else, and I’m not expecting to come across a coherent answer anytime soon. But, rather strikingly, two books I’ve read over the past week or so approach this existential problem from very different angles. The result being two books I’d highly recommend, not in the least because they speak to each other in quite unexpected ways.
Rarely have I encountered a less ambitious explanation of an author’s reasons for starting a literary career. But then again, Hubert Selby Jr. was no ordinary writer. Writing about the down and out, while struggling with poor health and addiction, one probably cares little about the literary establishment and its self-invented rules…
With snow and ice interfering with everyone’s ability to get out and about, there’s never been a better excuse to… Read more Children’s Authors You Should Check Out – Even If You Can’t Read Dutch
Does it matter what writers look like? The politically correct answer is, of course, no. Yet this week I finished… Read more Opening Pandora’s Box: On the Power of Popular Culture
Many moons ago, I was a member of a reading group. The members have since gone their separate ways, but… Read more On the Joys of Starting a Mini Reading Group
I’m probably the last person on earth to read We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver, and I’m… Read more We Need to Talk About Books
Back when I started this blog I thought I would add a post at least every week. Of course work… Read more Why Books Are Better Than TV (Okay, Sometimes)
I have been feeling a bit conflicted over the past few days or so. I have just finished reading Norman… Read more Why Do I Love Norman Mailer and Why Do I Not Feel Bad About It?
A while ago, I wrote about Moravagine, calling it the weirdest book I’d ever read. I stumbled upon it when… Read more The Joy of Literary Treasure Hunting
It’s been a while since my last post, but I have been enjoying a well-deserved break. As most people I… Read more When Reading Feels Like a Guilty Pleasure…