I finished the Berlin Noir trilogy on Christmas morning. They’re fantastic novels, and I recommend them highly. I don’t read many mystery novels, but these were amazing (and are highly recommended by Ron Rosenbaum), and I devoured the 830 pages from Thursday to Monday. I’ll hit my local library next week to see if they have the fourth novel in the series, which came out a little while ago.
Finishing the novels meant that I had to choose my next read from the Christmas gifts I would receive that day. (I’d decided against reading that copy of Ajax I brought with me, for reasons I can’t explain to myself.)
The Beckett, I thought, was out. No way was I starting that up in New Year’s week.
No Crime & Punishment, either. (One of Amy’s cousins wanted to get me something from my wish list, but couldn’t find Demons, so he picked up C&P instead)
No Chris Rose’s 1 Dead in Attic. I was heading out of New Orleans for a while.
What I decided to read was Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano
“Here’s my big chance!” I thought. “I’ll employ The Eco Strategy and finally read this book!”
See, unlike my experiences with Nightwood, I didn’t stop reading Under the Volcano because I didn’t enjoy the book. Rather, I stopped reading it because it is a difficult book and because I have too many other things to read on hand.
Ah, but The Eco Strategy! First employed in July 2004, when I visited Budapest for my friends’ wedding! At that time, I finished the two books that I brought along for the trip: Trainspotting and Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung. “Whatever will I do?” I thought. “I have another day here, plus a long trip home!”
I visited a nearby bookstore and realized that this was the only possible scenario in which I would finally read Foucault’s Pendulum! “If I can’t get through that book now, I’ll never make it through!”
My attention focused on Eco’s book, I found it smooth sailing and awfully rewarding.
Similarly, I passed the mysterious 40-page barrier that had stopped me in my previous attempts at reading Under the Volcano, a novel praised so highly by William Gass that I was embarrassed not to be able to read it further. At 130 pages, it’s become quite “easier,” although it’s no page-turner a la Berlin Noir.
Still, I plan on finishing up Rosenbaum’s Shakespeare book tonight or tomorrow morning, then plunging back into Geoffrey Firmin’s last day.
Then, I might start exploring this, for That Thing I’m Trying To Write.