Michael Lewis
When I was a kid, maybe in my early teens, I loved Roger Angell's baseball books (1975! remember 1975?! S still hasn't forgiven his brother for rooting for the Reds, just to be perverse). Since then, though, I haven't been much for sports writing. But Michael Lewis may be converting me (talk about belatedly jumping on a bandwagon). He's even got me interested in football. I might just have to read Moneyball, which S and D (along with basically everyone else--like I said, I'm late to this party) think is one of the best baseball books ever.
Or I could just keep being disappointed by novels.
Or I could just keep being disappointed by novels.
posted by Becca at
12:03 PM
1 Comments:
I am reading you reading and loving it. Is listening to books in the car reading? I think so and take in many books that way--right now, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, last week Voyage of the Narwal. In print I have been reading Cloudsplitter for weeks, maybe months. I read it in bed at night and can't stay awake to get through. In one mind, the earmind, I am in the consciousness of a precocious and annoying and lovable boy whose father has been killed in the September 11 attack, whose grandmother and grandfather barely escaped the bombings in Dresden--and they lost everyone and everything they loved--and I am in bed with the son of John Brown, created by Russell Banks. I can't go on like this. I decided a few weeks ago to read only what would feed my own fiction-writing, but I haven't figured out who that would be. Toni Morrison for sure and probably Lorrie Moore. That combo shows you how split my fiction-writing mind is.
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