It is close to 1000 pages. And very few pictures, I might add. The book is about the building of a cathedral in the 1100's. I know, practically spellbinding, right? But think about it - that's the equivalent to modern day Extreme Home Makeover. Without the bullhorn or weepy designers with unnaturally white teeth. In fact, in the 1100's teeth were a luxury. And they couldn't build diddly in a week. Unless it was made of treebark and horse poo. And even then, it wouldn't be the kind of house you could live in for long. Cuz poo will always win, people. You can stave off poo for so long - but eventually, it returns. Sometimes with a vengeance. Never forget that.
Anyway. It's a good book. There are some saucy sex scenes in it and when I read them, I pictured Oprah tagging those pages with her high-tech 3M post-it note highlighter pen. And then casually leaving the book in Steadman's room. HAH! Because you know Steadman has his own room. And a single bed. Shaped like a car.
Anyway. Can someone please solve the dilemma of uneven book weight? Unless you are dead-center of the thing - one side is always unbalanced. And with a book that big, it causes strain on my delicate milky-white wrists and fingers. Read shorter books, I guess. Maybe just the sides of cereal boxes for now.
Actually - I just started a new book: Kentucky Ham by William S. Burroughs Jr.
Corn has a great collection of old school beat gen books and when I read them, I want to know more about the authors. Their lives are more interesting than the stories they write most of the time. And always involved a great deal of booze and drugs and radical living. Which sort of amazes me a little because when I drink I can barely write my name let alone a great novel. Actually, when I'm SOBER I can barely write my name.
Take this guy WSB Jr. His dad was the famous author, William S. Burroughs (duh!). And the latter shot his wife in the head one day while re-enacting William Tell. She had an apple on her head. He had a gun. They were at a party - high, drunk, stupid. I mean who on God's green earth would have predicted he'd miss?
Anyway, her death made him become a writer. And after that, his son did. And loooong after that, I am reading the book that the son wrotebeforehediedattheageof34afterhislivercouldn'ttakenomoreabuse. I'll stick to the fiction, thanks.
And now, for no apparent reason - three unsuspecting dog heads.
Please don't put apples on heads.
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