Two nights ago I finished "In Cold Blood"; its last sentence is a perfect example of what attracts me to Capote’s writing: "Then, starting home, he walked towards the trees, and under them, leaving behind him the big sky, the whisper of wind voices in the wind-bent wheat." That is my home reading. As of last night, for my home "reading," I am listening to an 8-cassette set of Dylan Thomas reading his own work. (The book I read prior to "In Cold Blood" was "The World According to Garp" and before that, "The Grapes of Wrath." I found echoes of "The Grapes of Wrath" in "In Cold Blood," at the very least the similarity of society outcasts roaming the country in search of food and work. Both books mention Pretty Boy Floyd, by the way.)
For subway reading I am alternating between "The Berlitz Self-Teacher: French," which I am reading in the vain hope that I can brush up my comprehension of French--if not the ability to speak French sentences--in advance of a trip to Paris in springtime with members of my writers group, and "City of Bones," by Michael Connolly, which is not helping me learn French at all.
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