Symphony No. 9 (Scherzo)

for nearly two months now i've been slogging through orhan pamuk's "museum of innocence", a 500-something page clustercuss about star-crossed Turkish cousins (only not really, something about a distant relative by marriage and a beauty contest gone horribly wrong), one of whom is an adulterous heir to an industrial firm. it's definitely made me more aware of turkey, a country i had honestly never really considered as anything beyond an honourary "stan", but it's been torture to get through. i am convinced that someone is pasting pages into the book's spine as i sleep. or perhaps the book is engorging surrounding books while i am not looking, resulting in an odd hybrid between a parody of turkish postwar secular values and Jean Chrétien's 1984 memoir, "straight from the heart".

i am resisting the urge to give up on the book by sending it into a dusty exile only to be picked up years later in haste as i rush out to an event where reading material is obligatory: a weekend afternoon in the park, a shift at the library during exam time, lunch with Adelle (JUST JOKING! JUST JOKING!) and only to discover that it is brilliant and that i was a fool for giving up on it just before things started to get good.

i have, however, moved on to other literary pursuits but there's nothing that captivating. ian mcewan's "saturday" is quite fun, but little more. it's the literary equivalent of an ice cream sandwich: pleasant on a hot day, familiar, even reminiscent of one's childhood, yet forgotten as soon as it's done except for the residue left on one's fingers.

now that i've finished mixing metaphors like a magic bullet, i'll be off.