Sunday, January 9, 2011

By Nightfall, by Michael Cunningham

I'm reading Michael Cunningham's latest because it was on the shelf at the library in the "Lucky Day! Hot titles. Available now" section so I figured why not. It's sort of irritating me, in an engaging way. I went looking up reviews and this, from the Washington Post review, is nicely put: "With its eroticized reflections on modern aesthetics and liberal guilt, it's like watching a bi-curious college professor annotate an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue." Cunningham's (or rather, his character's?) comments on art are interesting. What's also interesting is that I read the Washington Post and New York Times reviews and they are as different as if they were reviews of different novels, I think. I don't want to read more reviews, at least not until I finish the book. Then maybe I'll have more to say. But I might not. There's not much there. Like I said, it's engaging, but it's not something I have to think about a lot, not a book I'll be turning over in my head as I'm falling asleep. Probably not a book I will think of again in six months, five years, ten years, and be like, "Oh, that's like--" or "Oh, what was that novel where--"

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