What books are we reading at the moment ?

[Canardly]

Tombland C.J.Sansom

[Regulator]

Tombland C.J.Sansom

A favourite author of mine (despite his politics).  I've read all the Shardlakes... and at some time will get round to reading Dominion.

[Efrogwr]

Tombland C.J.Sansom

A favourite author of mine (despite his politics).  I've read all the Shardlakes... and at some time will get round to reading Dominion.

I enjoyed it. A Winter in Madrid is good, too.

[Regulator]

Tombland C.J.Sansom

A favourite author of mine (despite his politics).  I've read all the Shardlakes... and at some time will get round to reading Dominion.

I enjoyed it. A Winter in Madrid is good, too.

I really enjoyed that.

[Robh]

Roadside picnic.  Already half way through and feel like I have only just glanced at it (and that the story has yet to start).  So both good and not so much.

That's the book that the film 'Stalker' is based on isn't it? If the film (which I like a lot) is anything to go by, I'm not surprised that it's a slow burner.

[Wowbagger]

“Full Tilt” by Dervla Murphy.

[rogerzilla]

SO gave me a copy of "The Narnia Code" by Michael Ward.  Still not sure his hypothesis (no spoilers) isn't just a series of coincidences, and he has an awful Dan Brownesque writing style, full of italics, exclamation marks and ellipses.  Also, he's preachy.

[Asterix, the former Gaul.]

“Four Chancellors And A Funeral”, the second instalment of Russell “RussInCheshire” Jones' documentation of the deluge of shit hurled at us by the Conservative Party, has just landed on the doormat.  I foresee a late night or two, and much FUMMIN'.

Best not to try reading too much at once.  I am looking forward to the final volume - 'The End of an Error' - that he promises.

[T42]

I noticed that my RIP John Barth sank without trace.  I found the full text of The Sotweed Factor here, free of charge.  It's in a fixed-pitch font and has a lot of begats before you reach the text but it's well worth a look.  Here are the first couple of paragraphs as a horse's doover:

IN  THE  LAST  YEARS  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  THERE  WAS  TO  BE

found  among  the  fops  and  fools  of  the  London  coffee-houses  one  rangy,
gangling  flitch  called  Ebenezer  Cooke,  more  ambitious  than  talented,  and
yet  more  talented  than  prudent,  who,  like  his  friends-in-folly,  all  of  whom
were  supposed  to  be  educating  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  had  found  the
sound  of  Mother  English  more  fun  to  game  with  than  her  sense  to  labor
over,  and  so  rather  than  applying  himself  to  the  pains  of  scholarship,  had
learned  the  knack  of  versifying,  and  ground  out  quires  of  couplets  after
the  fashion  of  the  day,  afroth  with  Joves  and  Jupiters,  aclang  with  jarring
rhymes,  and  string-taut  with  similes  stretched  to  the  snapping-point.

As  poet,  this  Ebenezer  was  not  better  nor  worse  than  his  fellows,  none
of  whom  left  behind  him  anything  nobler  than  his  own  posterity;  but  four
things  marked  him  off  from  them.  The  first  was  his  appearance:  pale-haired
and  pale-eyed,  raw-boned  and  gaunt-cheeked,  he  stood— nay,  angled— nine-
teen hands  high.  His  clothes  were  good  stuff  well  tailored,  but  they  hung  on
his  frame  like  luffed  sails  on  long  spars.  Heron  of  a  man,  lean-limbed  and
long-billed,  he  walked  and  sat  with  loose-jointed  poise;  his  every  stance
was  angular  surprise,  his  each  gesture  half  flail.  Moreover  there  was  a
discomposure  about  his  face,  as  though  his  features  got  on  ill  together:
heron's  beak,  wolf-hound's  forehead,  pointed  chin,  lantern  jaw,  wash-blue
eyes,  and  bony  blond  brows  had  minds  of  their  own,  went  their  own  ways,
and  took  up  odd  stances.  They  moved  each  independent  of  the  rest  and
fell  into  new  configurations,  which  often  as  not  had  no  relation  to  what  one
took  as  his  mood  of  the  moment.  And  these  configurations  were  shortlived,
for  like  restless  mallards  the  features  of  his  face  no  sooner  were  settled  than
ha!  they'd  be  flushed,  and  hi!  how  they'd  flutter,  every  man  for  himself,
and  no  man  could  say  what  lay  behind  them.

Barth was quite simply brilliant and it'd be a shame to miss his work.