the place is as empty as...
as promised aways back, i owe you a tiny excerpt from michael chabon's new book, the yiddish policemen's union. here he's describing the interior of the vorsht, a seedy bar sought out by our hero, detective meyer landsman:
"the place is as empty as an off-duty downtown bus and smells twice as bad. somebody came through recently with a bucket of bleach to paint in some high notes over the vorsht's steady base line of sweat and urinals. the keen nose can detect, above or beneath it all, the coat-lining smell of worn dollar bills."
when i first read that paragraph, i put the book down and sighed. smiled. stared at the book in wonderment. reread it. wrote it down. IM'd it to a friend. saved it in an email draft, cos i knew i'd want to post it. i've since moved on from page 69; in fact i finished the book on the train ride home tonight (looking up from the cottony, glue-smelling pages just in time to blink at the bright white light of an egret, fishing in the frozen food section of the croton harmon mudflats). chabon's writing -- he wrote wonder boys -- is just so fucking GOOD! the imagery, the passionate intensity of his love for language, the visceral connectedness of it all, it just gets better and better, right up until the very last page. and once again, i was reminded of why i fell in love with reading in the first place.
on the docket for tomorrow's commute? a rereading of john steinbeck's grapes of wrath.
the place is as empty as...
as promised aways back, i owe you a tiny excerpt from michael chabon's new book, the yiddish policemen's union. here he's describing the interior of the vorsht, a seedy bar sought out by our hero, detective meyer landsman:
"the place is as empty as an off-duty downtown bus and smells twice as bad. somebody came through recently with a bucket of bleach to paint in some high notes over the vorsht's steady base line of sweat and urinals. the keen nose can detect, above or beneath it all, the coat-lining smell of worn dollar bills."
when i first read that paragraph, i put the book down and sighed. smiled. stared at the book in wonderment. reread it. wrote it down. IM'd it to a friend. saved it in an email draft, cos i knew i'd want to post it. i've since moved on from page 69; in fact i finished the book on the train ride home tonight (looking up from the cottony, glue-smelling pages just in time to blink at the bright white light of an egret, fishing in the frozen food section of the croton harmon mudflats). chabon's writing -- he wrote wonder boys -- is just so fucking GOOD! the imagery, the passionate intensity of his love for language, the visceral connectedness of it all, it just gets better and better, right up until the very last page. and once again, i was reminded of why i fell in love with reading in the first place.
on the docket for tomorrow's commute? a rereading of john steinbeck's grapes of wrath.