Arne Hou Uerkvitz

All of 2012 in one ♥ post

In BOOKS on February 13, 2013 at 14:59


All that's been read. Thats's not much. And look at October. I forgot one? (f***)

All that’s been read. Thats’s not much. And look at October. I forgot one? (f***)


And pff, some of 2011 actually, silly me. Lazy me, maybe. Definitely. But this is a silly project. Here’s the list. Is there a theme to it? Who cares. I am probably just an idiot:

07/10/11 – Plato, “The Republic” ♥♥♥
31/10/11 – Neal Stephenson, “Reamde” ♥♥♥
29/12/11 – Haruki Murakami, “1q84” ♥♥♥♥
13/01/12 – José Saramago, “Elephants journey” ♥♥♥♥
07/02/12 – Martin Amis, “Time’s arrow” ♥♥♥
05/08/12 – Hermann Hesse, “Siddhartha” ♥♥♥
29/08/12 – Sven Regener, “Berlin Blues”
22/09/12 – Jennifer Egan, “A visit from the goon squad” ♥♥♥♥
24/10/12 – David Mitchell, “Cloud Atlas” ♥♥♥ *
01/11/12 – Michel Houellebecq, “The elementary particle” ♥♥
23/12/12 – Samuel Beckett, “Molloy” ♥♥♥♥

* October is a cursed month for this calendar. I forgot to plot in “Cloud Atlas” before taking and posting the above picture. There’s a theme for you. Hn?!

♥ = “Minimum. Well, I read it? And the last page too. Barely”
♥♥♥♥♥ = “Maximum. I loved it so much, it stayed with me past the last paragraph. The last and 5th heart is for wanting to read it again tomorrow”


Saramago. You’re my paragon. Period.

In BOOKS, TIME on March 18, 2011 at 16:26

Still set in blood. The first book of '11. Finally.

Finally, and at last, I got back from this dry spell of actual months without my nose in a book, where I even had these books just sitting there waiting to have their spines broken and their guts devoured, but a numbness of the mind, an inspirational limbo, a too long frozen winter of intellect and nature kept me in the darkness of my own platonic cave, which the late Saramago so eloquent and yet delicately used as a sounding board, an ending starting point for this magnificent small grandeur of a book I finished one sunday morning, realizing that I will forever come to miss the company of the potter, his daughter, his son-in-law Marcal and Isaura -his last love, forever wondering where they went and if they, of which I’m almost sure, found a new and happy life outside the center and its conformicy, this menacing and oh so true apparition of a metaphor for our contemporary western society, that this read has confirmed to me is at a breaking point or rather a transitional shift to something else but not necessarily wiser. Now Plato himself has left “The Republic” in my hands to struggle with and I’m determined to read and understand it (I hope to at least) so that I can face any politician and/or politico-dweeb who thinks he or she has the one and only true answer in their possession and tell them: “I’ve seen the sun and I’m not going back” and ask them to read the news.

Coetzee and stuff

In BOOKS, TIME on December 5, 2010 at 14:45

Read Disgrace. Swallowed it. Loved it. Ran immediately to see the movie wherein Malkovitch does a thing to the character that made me think twice about our main protagonist. In the movie I saw his face/value as being a corrupt egocentric I could pity with sympathy whereas in the book sympathy came first and protected him from my loathing his sorry old mind. Very interesting. Very good read . . . sigh

And then there’s the thing that by now is obvious. Bound to happen. Errors crop up as we walk by them. In this instance it’s all the “Octobers” of the decade. On this calendar they all should be represented by a proud “O” (except in ´19. That is an “S”? And the “Decembers” are flawed too. Pfff). They are not and they don’t. Yours truly is a sorry ass proof-reader. And he decided not to give a damn. Especially since for the marking of this book/post I used blood. My own. So far I’ve thumbed in progress in maroon watercolors. From now on it’ll be real live blood as penance. Dramatic? Nah. I draw some every week anyway, modifying my immune system with those damn interferon shots . . . sigh.

Now there’s a lull in reading. Or should I say an inadequacy to actually finish what I start reading. Both Camus and Rilke were discarded before I got to page 99, yawning. Appetite all gone and hung to dry. I have Saramago waiting at bedside though. But I’d rather play guitar really. Like this: … sigh

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