I am reading Ayelet Waldman's The Big Nap - brain candy between Edith Wharton and Josip Novakovich's April Fool's Day which my-friend-who-I-don't-know-what-to-call-him sent me in the mail. Is there a nicer thing to do for anyone other than mail them a book you think they'd like? If there is, tell me, but I doubt I'll agree. (Although the sainted people who brought me dinner after I had my babies come very very close. Even if I don't much like stuffed peppers.)
I am finding it very difficult to concentrate on reading much of anything at the moment between the head cold which has turned me into a mouth-breather, and the perpetual nausea. Even my usual comfort books- Laurie Colwin and LM Montgomery - are too involved with food, and make me want to throw up. I know it all passes by the fifth month or so, but in the meantime, I have books piled up. Damn it, I have reading to do!
Sorry, now I am just grumping. I *don't* have anything nice to say, so I'll shut up now.
Although I have to say, Hi Kate! I'm so glad to finally "meet" you : )
3 comments:
Where do these people get off writing novels in what is their second or third language when I can't seem to write anything publishable in my native language?
Joseph Conrad is one thing--his accomplishments fill me with admiration rather than envy--but contemporary writers of this multi-lingual ilk just fill me with shame. I couldn't read a book in Novakovich's native language, but he can write one in mine? I'm so lame!
Maybe it's translated...I'll check for you. I know how you feel though. I am everlastingly ashamed at my non-proficiency in foreign languages. It doesn't help that I am married to a man who speaks five languages. And he and our four-year-old converse in French. Sigh. Mama is an imbecile.
It depresses me that I can love words so much and yet have no proficiency at all for foreign languages.
I could probably survive on my Spanish skills, but I would talk like a toddler.
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