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One of the Guardian Unlimited Books' top 10 literary blogs: "A home-grown treasure ... smart, serious analysis"

The Bookaholics' Guide to Book Blogs: "Mark Thwaite ... has a maverick, independent mind"

Monday 26 September 2005

No fair!

It's not fair! I wanna play!

Sam, Sandra, Steve and Stefanie have been comparing their obsessiveness (posting lists of multiple volumes in their collection by or about single authors). My books are all over the place (in storage in Oxford, at my parents' house, in sealed boxes in the in-laws's loft, in the flat ...) so there is no way I can count, no way I can join the game! My list would look more like Steve's than Sandra's, as you might expect, but until the day when they are all in one place, I'll never know.

Sandra (Mrs BookWorld) has been posting some wonderful blogs of late (especially Shakespeare-related ones) so, if you haven't already, get over there.

And then there is Steve (who is due congratulations on the first anniversary of the peerless This Space) with this on Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being:

What drew me to this novel, of course, was its extraordinary title. I remember reaching for it on the library display in January 1986, the day of my birthday in fact. The book could easily have been like the movie: shallow and pretentious. And it probably got its notoriety anyway for its promiscuous sex and political sexiness rather than its literary daring. What made the book extra special for me - took it beyond the merely fashionable - was the way it began. Yes, there’s the opening section on Nietzsche’s theory of eternal recurrence (which I didn’t understand), but more importantly for me there’s also the passage where Tomas is introduced looking out of a window, introduced, that is, looking out of a window as seen through the writer’s imagination; not as an obvious figment or a postmodern plaything, but a living presence who begins the narrative. This simple moment of honesty felt like a gift; the key to the door.

Posted by Mark Thwaite

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An entire night
thrown down
beside a
companion with his
mouth turned
to the full moon
with his congested hands
into my silence
I wrote
letters full of love

I have never held
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(Carcanet Press)

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