Mark to the rescue

Mark has rescued me from book-less-ness.  After his comment on Tuesday's post I grabbed my library copy of Remainder and, sixty pages in, am loving it.

Something about the story of a man who has lost most of his memory but recovered one very clear image of the interior of an apartment, the view of red rooftops and black cats from its window and the smell of the liver cooked by the old woman a few floors down has me yearning to re-read Proust.  It hit me as I stood watching Tower Bridge open before me this morning (with my office in the distance on the opposite bank).  I recaptured the exact feeling I had when first reading Proust: the feeling of being totally overwhelmed by someone else's mind; the mixture of swooning delight and roaring impatience at the meandering of the sentences, the actual physical feeling of my mind being forced out at the edges to take it all in. 

So now I have gone from my life resembling a circular experimental novel, to being on a spiral staircase of remembered memories.  And as if that weren't disorientating enough, I've acquired two volumes of Samuel Beckett.  Could be bleak around here for a while.  Or very funny.  Really, it could go either way.

Comments

[adrienne]

My book club read this book a few months ago. It's very bizarre. Let me know what you think of the ending.

[Lee Rourke]

Yay,

You've made me happy!

Lee Rourke x