Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived In The Castle was a bit of a disappointment. I don't really know what I expected from it - more of an adventure, I suppose, but instead I got a rather grim story about prejudice and bullying in a small US town. Don't get me wrong, it's not a _bad_ book, it was just not what I wanted to get out of it.
After finishing Jackson's outbursts, I read the third and last book in Maxence Fermine's color series. I loved Snow, which is the first one, so much I immediately had to buy the other two once I'd finished it. The Black Violin was not as good as that one, but still a good read. The final book dealt with yellow, The Beekeeper. As with The Black Violin, I can not say I was blown away by it, but it was closer to what I loved about Snow. I'd recommend Snow to anyone, but you can easily live without the last two books.
After The Beekeeper I picked up a couple of Ian McEwan novels and took them with me to Norway for the weekend. I've previously read The Innocent and the short-story collection Between The Sheets by this author, and off course I've seen Atonement (not yet read it, though). But The Comfort of Strangers. Fucking hell! (Sorry about that.)The reviews on the cover likens McEwan to a skilled torturer barely allowing his readers a moment of relief before drowning them in darker despair. I have never, ever agreed more with a review. This story is, from beginning to end, impossible to not get carried away with, and upon reaching the conclusion I physically shrank into a tiny pinpoint in the Gardermoen airport, emanating what I assume was a pretty tragic sound as the world collapsed on the pages. (Metaphorically speaking, it's not about the end of days or anything...) I'll not give away the story line, but if you're up for a quick read sure to keep you entertained, this is the book for you.
The second McEwan book I took with me to Norway I almost did not want to read, as I was totally exhausted after the previous one. For You turned out to be quite clever, not so much in the story it tells, as in the way it is told. The book is built up in the form of a libretto, where the characters narrate their way through a rather tragic story. Because of the way it is built, you get very little insight to the inner lives of the characters, but it's an interesting experiment and very quick read. I think it took me 25 minutes to get through, if even that.
Leaving McEwan for a while, I dug into The End of Mr Y by Scarlett Thomas, a book I bought quite some time ago, but have been looking forward to read. After the long procession of realistic characters in my previous reads, it is very nice to once again sink back into the arms of fantastic story telling where there are no laws or rules binding the universe to its normal behaviour. I've read about two thirds of it, and am hoping to finish it tomorrow. Will write a more in depth review when I return from London, no doubt with four-five more books I want to comment on :)
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