All around me, writing friends are celebrating their success at getting their novels published. I’m happy for each of them:
Me? A paltry few published short stories, a paltry few unpublished novels, motivation that seems to have contracted a wasting disease, with the days getting shorter and the nights getting longer. Hence the paltry few posts here. But there’s always a glimmer of hope somewhere.
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Currently reading: Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe. A gigantic book. Legend has it that Wolfe’s editor had chopped it down from 1,000 pages into something more manageable. The edition I’m reading is 500 pages — I’m about a third of the way through it — and it is apparently a “restored” edition in which much of the chopped stuff was put back in. Every word is delicious. I’m running to the dictionary constantly (or should be). The metaphors are breathtaking. The comedy is wry and satisfying. But Wolfe’s treatment of blacks, Jews, and poor whites makes me cringe with its outdatedness.
Wolfe was once esteemed in the same cohort as Fitzgerald and Hemingway (two authors I just don’t get the praise for), but in recent decades his star has descended. This novel, and You Can’t Go Home Again, have been on my list for years, nay, decades, but I think once I finish Angel (if I live that long), I’ll be finished with Wolfe as well.