Of the Eiffel Tower, not a trace

In Current reading, Drafts, Hautvoir on April 14, 2014 at 7:02 am

This morning, Amazon informs me of the latest novel by Francine Prose. I steer on in my tiny skiff  and prepare coffee after reading through the delirious heaps of praise the book receives – all of it deserved, I’m sure. Sometimes, the cross-currents and contrary winds make for slow time, progress-wise. Especially if no one has ever called you – or ever will – the Hope Diamond of writing. Although I can’t help wondering how a writer feels, sitting down to an ongoing project with the knowledge the Hope Diamond must outdo its own brilliance somehow. Not a hurdle on my list of challenges for the day.

Despite my reservations about reading Ian McEwan’s Atonement in French, I read on in small bits – last night, a superb passage where a twenty-year old rewrites a letter he wants to come off as casual, cool, amusing yet sincere. Racked all the while by lust, desire, frustrated yearning and a host of other emotions yet to be explored.

Sounds at my window: birds, passing cars.

For the time being in terms of my own priorities, what I carry forward about the announcements and reviews of Francine Prose’s Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 : the shifting thing called love, the shifting thing called truth, the shifting thing called self.

Back to my pot-holed, messy fictional town I go.


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