I've been listening to a book on tape, as usual. This one's Geraldine Brooks' People of the Book, a novel about a bibliographer who curates rare manuscripts. She's called to Sarajevo to work on a medieval Haggadah, the Sarajevo Haggadah (hey, this one actually exists!). During her work, she discovers wine stains, a Venetian censor inscription, salt, a bit of insect, and a hair (and maybe more, I haven't finished). And then as she looks into each other these, there's a narrative that tells the story of the Haggadah and how the stains or whatever came to be where they now are. All that's very interesting, but I do find the lack of finish to the mini-narratives a bit frustrating. What happens to Ruti in trying to escape Spain during the expulsion? How does she escape, and where does she go?
(There's also the really irritating lisp the CD reader gives one of the Spanish characters; I think she's trying to give a sense of a Barcelona accent, but it's just irritating.)
But, the other part of the novel follows the narrator as she deals with her famous mom and learns that her dad, too, was famous; he was a famous artist. And she galavants around continents, across Europe, to the US east coast, and so forth.
And that's the part of the book I find sort of irritating. Because, really, how many people have famous moms and dads? There are no worries about money, no student loans to worry about, no nothing. It's sort of like watching Indiana Jones, and thinking his is anything like an academic's life. It takes an effort in disbelief. In the case of Indiana Jones movies, at least they're amusing and laughing at themselves along the way.
Have you ever noticed how depressing most of the books about the midwest are? I suppose Moo isn't, totally. I lived in a town with an annual Prime Beef festival, including a Prime Beef Princess. It's pretty hard not to be depressing when high school girls in town aspire to be the Prime Beef Princess.
I feel like I'm in EEBO-less exile.
I want to be able to go outside without being miserably cold, and to call up old college friends or one of my relatives and go out to dinner.
I hate winter.