magicbeans. nothing if not awkward.

I had to go into the Jack Morton office today to drop of some CDs for Chris.W, but I resolutely avoided the 7th floor. 'I've got some friends down there, but there's other people that have absolutely no desire to run into.' All in all it was relatively painless. I did have to explain a few times what had happened and why I wasn't likely to be around much anymore.

From there, downtown to pick up some new subway reading, as I had just finished the one I had been reading, If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things by Jon McGregor. My bookbuying habits generally consist of perusing the shelves of a used bookstore, say the Strand, for half an hour, forty-five minutes, picking things up because of their titles, or more often, the design of their covers, reading the first few pages, and then generally putting them back, but occasionally buying them. Sometimes this leads me to owning books that I'll start, not be able to get into, and never finish. (From time to time I'll pick one of those books up months, years later and find that spark that I missed the first time.) Sometimes it leads me to finding my way through the book, but remaining more or less indifferent throughout. And much less frequently, maybe once every few months, maybe less, I'll fall in love with a book so bought.

If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things is a first novel. And suffers from a few of the problems that first novels typically suffer from, which is to say, it's not a perfect book. But it is beautifully written, engaging, and touching. And heartily recommended.

(And one of two British narratives entering my consciousness over the last few weeks, the other being the outstanding new BBC cop show Life On Mars. The combination of which, along with spending more days at home recently, has led to my drinking quite a lot of tea.)

I have a feeling that the new book I picked up might be one of those that I start and then find myself putting down without making too big a dent. It's longish, about 500 pages, and while most of my favourite books have been long and dense (Gravity's Rainbow, Mason & Dixon, The Pope's Rhinoceros ), my blocks of reading time since I moved to New York have consisted mostly of time spent on the subway, which doesn't lend itself well to difficult, long-form novels, as much as I enjoy them.

And then by Digital Society and dinner with the whole crew from 250 Moore, attempted at Caravan of Dreams, but due to a gas leak, diverted to Pukk.