Syllabus #221

My weekend morning porch coffee habit might be coming to a natural hiatus for a few months.  It's been in the 40s at sunrise the last 2 days.  It's tolerable with a thick bathrobe and a hot coffee, but if it gets any colder, my fragile Reynaud's*-having fingies and I will be staying inside.

It's like meteorological fall held off until the exact beginning of Fall Break.  I'll enjoy wearing layers and not sweating for approximately 3 days before I will be ready for 80 degree weather to return.  

*A very real and not made up affliction that, ahem, some people insist is imaginary.

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A couple of interesting books about race and labor history 

When a writer is so amusing you'd read even their grocery list, and the universe gives you, basically, their shopping list.  Samantha Irby's roundup for The Strategist is funny, but her Substack newsletter reflecting on the concept is even more hilarious.  She makes a good point about not seeing normal brown teeth on TV anymore.  We don't really watch TV (what a pretentious thing to say, but I am who I am) so this isn't a phenomenon I encounter regularly, but last night we were at a bar having dinner and watching the Phillies/Braves playoff game, and one of the cameras zoomed in on a coach in the dugout, aggressively chewing something with his mouth open, and the sight of his jagged, nicotine-stained teeth in full HD relief was SO JARRING.  I think sports might be the last bastion of average human dentistry on television.

Analog Reading:

Finished Mr. Mercedes.  I did appreciate the ending, but man, was it tense for a while there (because of course).  Also, our pal Steve could use a more ruthless editor, but who am I to say that?  I mean, guy did write actually very good tome of advice on writing, the aptly named, On Writing, but maybe he should apply himself to the natural sequel, On Editing. It might be the shortest work he ever produces. 

 

Now reading Zadie Smith's new novel, The Fraud.  She strikes me as the opposite kind of writer from Stephen King (beyond genre and literary merit) in that I get the impression she labors, if not agonizes, over every word, whereas it's easy to picture King just sitting down at his keyboard and unleashing a firehose torrent of words, tweaking a comma or an adjective here and there, and keeping it moving.  At any rate, The Fraud is excellent.  It takes a while to settle into its rhythms, but then it's a layer cake of exploration into the human condition.  Aside from the most obvious case of fraud that lends the book its' title, is anyone really who they purport to be on the surface?  

Also picked up The Last Thing He Told Me by Laura Dave, on the recommendation of a coworker friend.  It promises to be a fast read, so I promoted it towards the top of my always metastasizing physical and electronic TBR pile.  It's not a book I would have been likely to stumble upon on my own, but it's highly entertaining so far.  I always think I'm not really into thrillers or anything romance-adjacent, but then I pick one up and have to admit the appeal.  Also, I did devour V.C. Andrews' Flowers in the Attic series at an age when I was old enough to be fully aware and in thrall of how salacious it was, but too young to fully grasp all the references, so I can't be throwing rocks from inside my glass house, or whatever.