What I read while I wasn't blogging

I can't explain it, my long absence from this blog thing. Recent months have seen an uptick in comic book consumption, but that's no excuse. The truth is, like so many Twenty-First Century middle class Americans, I have trouble balancing the demands of work, primetime television, literature, kid-oriented action cartoons, comic books, coffee consumption, bills, and blogging. I'm told that interpersonal interactions can also be very taxing, which is why I stay away, doncha know.

Anyhow, presented here in no particular order is a brief summation of what all I read since, damn, June:

V., Thomas Pynchon. This was a re-read; I was trying to get a friend to read along with me. Every time I revisit Pynchon, it's a reaffirmation of why I say I like him so much. Between readings, I figure it's just that I'm an obnoxious jackass, but it turns out he's really fucking fun to read. This reading was accompanied by J. Kerry Grant's A Companion to V., which was no Ulysses Annotated, but pretty worthwhile all the same.

"Hippolytus," Euripides. There's some really good Gender Studies-fodder in here, but I don't have it in me.

The Fortress of Solitude, Jonathan Lethem. I got around to picking up this one based on Lethem's excellent work on Marvel Comics' "Omega the Unknown." The message here is that comic books are a totally valid basis for forming literary tastes, and anyway, "Omega" is better than Fortress.

Melmoth the Wanderer, Charles Robert Maturin. This one I picked up because I really liked a comic book with a character named "Melmoth." Seriously. This turned out to be a horrible reason to pick up a 600+ page book. I never finished it, having gotten mired in "The Spaniard's Tale" a lengthy antimonastic screed wedged into this Gothic novel. Honestly, it might be a pretty good book if you just skip that one part.

Maps and Legends, Michael Chabon. I didn't pick up this one just because Chabon wrote a few essays about comics, nor because comic artist Jordan Crane designed the book's amazing jacket, nor even because I read most everything McSweeney's puts out. I also read it because Chabon was apparently fond of D'Aulaires' Book of Norse Myths as a child, and this speaks highly of him.

A Good Man is Hard to Find, Flannery O'Connor. Holy crap, how come no one ever told me how good Flannery O'Connor was?! All this time I was under the impression she was pretty much the literary equivalent of Dixie Carter, but damn!

Atmospheric Disturbances, Rivka Galchen. I read this at the beach. It still smells like sunblock. This book began a brief mini-fascination with Argentina.

Final Exam, Julio Cortazar. This book just about killed my mini-fascination with Argentina. I'd been hearing good things about Cortazar for a little while, and I am entirely prepared to accept that this may not have been the right book to start with. Pretty much a novel in which early 20th C Argentinians walk through the foggy streets of Buenos Aires, just talking & talking about art & literature, and the fog is the more interesting part of the book. If you read the Scylla & Charybdis ep. of Ulysses and thought, "hmm, needs more wank," this is the book for you. In all fairness, I will probably make a second attempt at Cortazar, one where I tackle a different book. Also Borges. This was the year I realized I really should read some Borges.