I have been reading novellas lately. I like reading a book or two in a day; it makes me feel good. Also, I want to write a novella. I love the length of the novella. I like short chapters. I enjoy thin texts that have a deep, broad, and powerful impact. And both of the books I read yesterday do those very well.
Paul Gallico: The Snow Goose
Crippled social outcast artist rediscovers/ lives in nature, bonds with the critters, and then sacrifices self to save others. Lots of symbolism. Great read. Quick. How he dances on the edge of sentimentality and emotion, yet does not go into Hallmark putridness, is beyond me. Awe. I am in awe. Seriously, Gallico is like a master water colorist whose brush lets the colors flow up to exactly where they should be--and stop--without a single erroneous bleed into another color.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez: Memories of My Melancholy Whores
Ninety year old bachelor falls in love with a teenage girl prostitute. This book could have gone wrong, salacious, or Burroughs/Ginsberg in so many ways and at so many times; it did not. I am stunned at Marquez's control; the sensuality was potent and intense, and there was nothing pornographic or even what I would call erotic. Instead, the text and sex felt and read very fleshy, very meaty, very real--without a lot of judgment or morality going on.
I have never read Marquez before for two reasons: when I scanned the prose, it looked intimidating and artsy fartsy (earlier impressions); and all his books I could find were thick. So, I feel filed my prejudice in the dustbin, checked the book out, and have no question of why Marquez was awarded a Nobel. This stuff is amazing. Again, what a great read to cap off yesterday!
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