I still have fuck all (read: nothing) to say, except that if I could be anywhere right now I'd be at home reading this fantastic book Anna (I) Anna. I can't get enough of it. I started it about a year ago but I left off reading it for one reason or another & now that I've picked it back up I don't know how I ever put it down before. (Which is actually eerily analagous to my love life at the moment.) I bought it at a certain store for its cool 70s-looking cover but it turns out the book is amazing. Anna (not Anna or Anna but Anna) is a Danish expat who becomes obsessed with the idea of killing her young daughter. She wakes up very early in the mornings & whets all the knives till she completely freaks herself out & has to go back to Denmark. Except she doesn't; she runs off to Rome with a drug-dealing hippie instead.
You can tell the book is written by a man (Klaus Rifbjerg, actually, a rather famous Danish poet) because in the interestingly fluid narrative style, which fluctuates from first person to third seemingly at random (hence the parenthetical title), the protagonist is, between knife-whettings, either reminding us of how devastatingly beautiful she is or masturbating in inappropriate locations. Not that I have a problem with that (in fact, I think it's A-OK!); I'm just saying it was obviously written by a man, poet or no poet.
Yesterday when I wasn't quite as busy at work & while Mike Toole was toiling away at my blog for me, I was reading up on old Klaus, who seems fascinating, in a sturdy, Skando sort of way of course.
"We ourselves are a work of fiction; remembering our life is a work of imagination." - K.R.
