I am reading the poems of Jane Kenyon alongside Nathanael West's The Day of the Locust, and they do not go together at all. In fact, the combination is beginning to make me feel like that Star Trek alien who travels among the galaxies coated in what looks like glossy white house paint on one side of his body and glossy black house paint on the other. Locust is so brittle and jeering; I am struggling to finish rereading it, though I do acknowledge, even amid my dislike, its cleverness and comedy. The scenes on the Hollywood stage sets are particularly entertaining, but the characters are so tinny. The book is making me long for the real storytellers--Charles Dickens, Raymond Chandler . . .
Anyway, I have Kenyon to keep me warm.
Talk to me about what you're reading. Is it the right book, or the wrong one?