it's snowing today. or that's an understatement because this is a blizzard, not a mere snowstorm, and we're looking at record-breaking amounts of snow. which isn't something i'm wont to believe because storms tend to be blown out of proportion and inspire hyperbolic freakouts, aka people stocking up on water and bread and trader joe's boxed salads like it's the end of the world -- but, then, i went walking around in the snow today, and we got inches within three hours, so, hey, i believe it. sorta. well, more than i did before juno arrived and the MTA announced subway shutdowns and NYC schools decided to close tomorrow.
i love snow. which is also an understatement because i don't just love snow, i love snow. i've been alternately bummed out and irritated this winter because of the lack of snow (seriously, ask anyone i know; s/he'll tell you how much i've complained about it), so i'm pleased as punch (and aware that there's a privilege to that), though i'm bummed that tomorrow's launch party for vivian apple at the end of the world at housingworks has been cancelled.
reread never let me go (faber and faber, 2005) this weekend and started taking down notes yesterday so i can write about it and the buried giant (post to arrive by the end of the week). part of me feels like the buried giant is so markedly different from ishiguro's other work, and another part of me simply derives pure joy from talking about never let me go as often as i can, and yet another part of me just enjoys this process, this analyzing of themes and characters and voice, because it hearkens me back to college and comparative literature and how much fun it all was.
i've seriously got to join a book club.
starting reading the woman upstairs (knopf, 2013) over the weekend, and i'd heard and read so much about how nora is unlikable that i wonder if that didn't predispose me to like her. because i do. because i can identify with her rage and anger and also with her disappointments and with how her life was supposed to be different -- she was supposed to be an artist; she was supposed to live in this city and live this life and have this kind of happiness; and i'd argue that it doesn't really matter what the specifics are, simply that things were supposed to be different.
at least, these are my initial thoughts because i'm only ninety pages in. we'll see if i continue to like her -- and how much messud's short chapters bug me. other authors and their short, clipped sentences bug me, but messud's short, clipped chapters bug me. it was one thing that drove me a bit mad with the emperor's children (knopf, 2006), how she kept hopping from character to character, chapter to chapter, so much that i wished i could reach into the book and hold it still in one place before it went bouncing on. i've had mixed reactions to the short chapters in the woman upstairs thus far, so we shall see how it fares as i continue reading.
which i shall go off to do because, y'know, blizzard = free reading time. have a good week, all! and, fellow new yorkers (and bostonians and everyone in the beautiful spaces between), stay home, stay safe, and dig into those TBR piles!