Schlagobers und Blut

I did not think it was possible for a human being to be this tired. And it’s not as if I didn’t sleep last night, *or* catch a nap this morning before work. It’s The Alien within, I know it is. All that growing of fingernails and kidneys and spinal columns is wiping out its host!

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I finished The Hotel New Hampshire last night. What a read. John Irving has such a good touch with all the weirdness in this book – you never feel as if he’s being weird just to *be* weird. Every last bit of weirdness is 1) completely believable in the context of the story, and 2) absolutely necessary in the context of the story. That said, though, I do think his earlier stuff – Garp, Hotel New Hampshire - is his brilliant stuff. His later stuff – esp. Fourth Hand – is straining to be weird because that’s what his readers have come to expect. Cider House Rules and Owen Meany are good books, but dancing on that hairy edge, to mix my metaphors. I will indeed read his new one coming out this summer, though.

I must see the movie now, if only to see Jodie Foster as Franny, although apparently it's a really bad movie. It's probably because there's *so much* in the book and it cannot possibly all be captured or dealt with in a two-hour film - like trying to make a decent movie out of something like Pat Conroy's Prince of Tides and destroying it in the process.

I realized I have never read Son of the Circus. I tend to enjoy novels about India, as its culture and history fascinate me – Midnight’s Children ranks right up there, as does A Fine Balance. So I should probably read this, although this Publishers’ Weekly review from Amazon does give me pause for thought:
Though there are flashes here of the dramatic verve of The World According to Garp and Cider House Rules , Irving's long-awaited eighth novel is generally a tedious affair: rambling; lacking suspense; devoid of energetic or lyric prose; sometimes verging on farce and other times almost as lethargic as the sultry atmosphere of Bombay, where it is set.

I want to wait just a bit though – two John Irving novels in the space of three months is enough.

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The guilt of motherhood:

This morning I dropped the boys off at daycare and Jude CRIED and CRIED. He loves his teacher, he only goes two days a week, and those two days are not very long days. But his separation anxiety phase must be kicking in. He cried “Mama! Mommy! Mommy!” while doing that little motion with his hands – arms outstretched towards me, fingers beckoning me back to him – I thought I’d implode with guilt right there. Even the idea of a picnic lunch and a trip to Dairy Queen to celebrate the first day of summer did nothing to assuage his grief. I left, knowing it must be really bad though, if the mention of ice cream didn’t help. How do full-time working moms do it? Thank God I’m lucky enough that I don’t have to – my guilt gland couldn’t stand anymore. It’s six hours later and I still feel awful.

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Remember: Sorrow floats.