Ragtime by E. L. Doctorow (12/10)

pg. 10, maybe 11: doctorow demonstrates the power of strong, simple sentences (abrupt shifts in startling imagery or intimate statements of fact, presented in basic, repeated structures) building a rhythmic crescendo of slightly ironic, limpid, and engrossing prose. for some reason, i have the impression of a perfectly transparent frozen thing, but i think this is meant to be warm.

apparently, doctorow is frequently lumped with roth, more by geographic and ethnic proximity than any resonance in their work--from what i've seen so far.

Towers of Midnight by Brandon Sanderson (11/10)

Don't say a word.

The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius (10/10)

Remember when you read books? When your mind wasn't a scattered mash of quotidian responsibilities, crusting like spilled soup in the fridge?

Don't ever expect either 1) thoughts or 2) culture from me again.

The Story of O by "Pauline Réage" (08/10)

Underworld by Don DeLillo (08/10)

DeLillo is a cold writer.

Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille (07/10)

A Fan's Notes by Frederick Exley (06/10)

Like all good books, A Fan's Notes is several works, and one of the more minor ones is an eloquent, mostly unwitting condemnation of mid-twentieth century American sexual mores. This, gentle reader, is why traditional values are shit. My least favorite parts of the book feature young, virile Exley-the-misogynist. I far prefer Exley the extravagant failure, Exley the sardonic commentator on America and all its petty deficits.