Discovering a new author is like falling in love. It happens in unexpected ways . You are forever changed and you begin to see things with greater clarity.
My current favorite author is Mona Simpson. I came upon her quite by accident or at least a round about route. I chanced upon her writing through reading about her brother -Steve Jobs. Whatever the initial reasons for reading her work, I have now come to love her writing. I am currently reading My Hollywood. There is something about the way she writes that just about breaks my heart. I find myself sucked into a world where I can hear the characters talk and see what they see and feel what they feel. This , for the longest time, has been my assessment of a good writer.
I have to say though this hasn't always happened with what are often called 'the classics'. I think the first time a 'classic' hit me like that was when I read Anne Bronte's The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.I eventually read that book at least 8 more times- cover to cover. I wish she had written more. Agnes Grey was touching but mostly in the sense that it was Anne finding herself as a writer. Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White was the second time that lightning struck. I neither wanted the book to end nor could I take my eyes off the pages even to go to the bathroom or to take the time out for a bite to eat.
Simpson, however, captures my imagination in a different way. Reading her book has been a bit like taking my heart out of my chest and holding it out to be crushed anytime anyone chooses. I have not set out here to write a review of the book ( plenty of people have already done that and in wonderful ways!). Instead , it leaves me wishing I had such felicity with words- the talent to evoke such images of the maps of the human heart. Her work feels like a cartography of that most mysterious of human organs.
I watch helplessly the unfolding drama and would like to get to the denouement. It might be crushing . It might be disappointing. It might leave a bitter taste in the mouth. But I must know.
My current favorite author is Mona Simpson. I came upon her quite by accident or at least a round about route. I chanced upon her writing through reading about her brother -Steve Jobs. Whatever the initial reasons for reading her work, I have now come to love her writing. I am currently reading My Hollywood. There is something about the way she writes that just about breaks my heart. I find myself sucked into a world where I can hear the characters talk and see what they see and feel what they feel. This , for the longest time, has been my assessment of a good writer.
I have to say though this hasn't always happened with what are often called 'the classics'. I think the first time a 'classic' hit me like that was when I read Anne Bronte's The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.I eventually read that book at least 8 more times- cover to cover. I wish she had written more. Agnes Grey was touching but mostly in the sense that it was Anne finding herself as a writer. Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White was the second time that lightning struck. I neither wanted the book to end nor could I take my eyes off the pages even to go to the bathroom or to take the time out for a bite to eat.
Simpson, however, captures my imagination in a different way. Reading her book has been a bit like taking my heart out of my chest and holding it out to be crushed anytime anyone chooses. I have not set out here to write a review of the book ( plenty of people have already done that and in wonderful ways!). Instead , it leaves me wishing I had such felicity with words- the talent to evoke such images of the maps of the human heart. Her work feels like a cartography of that most mysterious of human organs.
I watch helplessly the unfolding drama and would like to get to the denouement. It might be crushing . It might be disappointing. It might leave a bitter taste in the mouth. But I must know.
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