Don’t watch “Inland Empire” while holding your baby. Your baby won’t mind, but if you watch a David Lynch movie for ten minutes and then look down at your baby, your baby’s face will freak you out.
Don’t watch “Inland Empire” while holding your baby. Your baby won’t mind, but if you watch a David Lynch movie for ten minutes and then look down at your baby, your baby’s face will freak you out.
I read the bulk of Roberto Bolaño’s 2666 in late December, the last time the stomach flu rampaged through my house. It’s a very good book to read in the middle of the night when you’re not sure whether or not you’re going to throw up. The landscapes in the book — like the bathroom at 3am — are very brightly lit and clear, but also unsettlingly shifty.
(The last time I had food poisoning was in New Orleans on New Year’s Eve 1994, and I was reading Pale Fire; also entirely appropriate to the occasion, and in much the same way.)
The reason I bought 2666 wasn’t because I knew I was getting stomach flu, but because of my occasional worry that I’m too old to experience a new novel as a masterpiece. Rather: most of the time think I’m too old to experience a new novel as a masterpiece, and occasionally I consider this cause for worry. And when that happens I buy and read the acknowledged masterpiece of the moment, to see if I can get those bumpers to light up one more time.
No lights this time. But I was glad to have read this big, nauseous book. Some comments below the fold — don’t proceed if (like me) you try to avoid prior knowledge of books you plan to read.
