Monday, January 14, 2008
Maybe its another way to measure progress
There are books that are beyond me. I mean, that's not a particularly revealing confession, but it can be discouraging when those books are ones that generations of other people won't shut up about. For example, I have never made it through anything by Dickens, which makes me wonder if the common man of his day was smarter and had a longer attention span than I do (which is not such a great feat, after all).
One book I have failed to read is One Hundred Years of Solitude. It is the most directionless novel that I know of, so my attention span proved to be an obstacle to great for the book's other virtues to overcome.
Until last month, when my second attempt ended in success. What a book. Trying to describe it would be like trying to describe what it is like to be alive: you could think up any adjective and it would apply. That is my review of One Hundred Years of Solitude: Read it. Now.
Right now I am reading The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. This is mostly because a friend gave it to me for Christmas but also because maybe I have matured enough to read a book by an author I gave up on while I was in High School. It was a mistake for me to read Atlas Shrugged back then. I never even made it to the part where Taggart starts using Henry Rearden's new metal for his railroad tracks. (I assume this happens, because it was about to happen when I quit reading.)
This time around Ayn is much more interesting. Even though Howard Roark is a little too god-like, I can't wait to see what sort of stunt he pulls next.