I'm still reading Smilla's Sense of Snow---fittingly, since it's snowing here, for real (I shoveled the walk a couple days ago).
I've given up on the plot--I cheated and read the summary online, so I don't have to wonder what happens--and just as well because it's inconclusive...
I don't care about the characters either. Also, I can't tell them apart--they all have the same name. (Of course they don't, but it seems like it.)
I continue to read--slowly--for the snippets of interesting history, geography, arresting images––
for instance, that you can locate an arctic rabbit by the steam of its breath––and occasional insight:
"The bad thing about death is not that it changes the future. It's that it leaves us alone with our memories."Yes. I hate that.
I just started The Great War and Modern Memory about World War I and "some of the literary means by which is has been remembered," by Paul Fussell. The author writes, "If the book had a subtitle, it would be something like 'An Inquiry into the Curious Literariness of Real Life'".
LOL
It's been sitting on the shelf at work for a year, and I think it was mentioned in Achilles in Vietnam, so this week I picked it up.
I just started it and it's fascinating.
