A recent article in the New Yorker, coupled with a whimsical (possibly fleeting) desire to work at a publishing house (I forewent an internship at a publishing house for my current position in 2008), has reinvigorated my interest in modern literature. Maybe it's a mistake to start with the best of the best (will just be disappointed later), but was walking through the East Village yesterday and passed Slainte Bar (pronounced SHLAN-cha. It's a toast to health in Gaelic). It reminded me of the signed copy of Let the Great World Spin buried deep in the back of my closet: "For Kaila and Kristin: Slainte. Colum McCann." Not only is Colum one of the foremost writers of our generation, but his works are quintessentially New York (despite his Irish descent). What better time to revel in the beauty of this great city than in June, when the summer dawns on us and the mysteries of the city come out to play? And what better way to celebrate it than by getting lost in a timeless urban read? So here goes. First book of summer. And it's got big shoes to fill, coming off of the heels of The Color Purple.
Oh yeah, on a different and belated note, Happy Father's Day, Dad. Thanks for, you know, raising me and stuff.
Oh yeah, on a different and belated note, Happy Father's Day, Dad. Thanks for, you know, raising me and stuff.
