With this, my third installment of Shelf Esteem, I continue my voyeuristic, bibliophonic, mania.
I had a little incident this week where I beat the crap out of my malfunctioning scanner/printer. It is a pity that electronics’ manufacturers (and consumers) think that one needs to have extra features to justify higher prices. I would be happier paying more money for fewer features if it meant higher quality and reliability. But those aren’t really words that fit into the disposable, just try and get it fixed, world of consumer electronics. Thankfully, I scanned all of my Shelf Esteem images a few weeks ago so I have plenty of images to share until I find a scanner/printer that won’t cause me to go nutso.
The book’s first three movements consist of the erotic fantasies and case-history of one of the novelist’s conception of Sigmund Freud’s female patients, overlapping, expanding, and gradually turning into almost normal narrative. But then the story takes a different course with the convulsions of the century, and becomes a testament of the Holocaust, harrowing and chillingly authentic. Only at the end does the fantasy element return, pulling together the earlier themes into a kind of benediction.
Is this person a reader? I think so, but when it comes to fiction s/he seems to have stopped buying hardcovers in the 1980s.
The book I would read if I had to pick one: I think I would choose The White Hotel. I am not interested in women’s erotic tales, but it sounds kind of fascinating. Parts of it are also epistolary, which you know I like.