What I'm Reading/In the Book Review

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The pile would be even taller if I slipped in the two books that Miss G gave me for my birthday. It’s the damnedest thing, but I can’t remember whether I’ve read V S Naipaul’s A Bend in the River.  I’m absolutely certain that I’ve read the first couple of pages — can I possibly have stopped? O age, I know thy sting. 

Interestingly, there are only two novels in this heap. The new Coetzee, which I wasn’t going to read until a critical mass of reviews convinced me that I must, and Daniel Martin, which I’ve wanted to read ever since Thanksgiving in Ste Croix.  (I’m willing to say “Sant Croy,” but writing “St Croix” is illiterate. My inner tween thrives on such problems, and it’s best to indulge the less obtrusive ones.) That hasn’t stopped me from reading three or four other novels first. The rest of it is — arduous-looking. You can see Peter Gay’s new book near the bottom. I hereby vow that I shall not open it until I’ve finished Mr Krugman’s book. A few other impetuous purchases are beginning to stale as well. Ay di me.

“Ay di me” is my latest affectation — do admit (my second) that it has been a while since I sported one. I’ve no idea what it means, beyond it’s being an Italianate expostulation that somehow found currency among the British. Which British, I don’t yet know. I’ve stolen it, as anyone can tell, from the Mitford sisters, who had it, probably, from Violet Hammersley, their mother’s impossible friend — but perhaps not. To me, “ay di me” means, “I’ve got to sit down for a minute,” but only as spoken by someone who does little or no physical work.

And just what do I call making dinner — even if it is burger night? (Well, especially if…)

As for this week’s Book Review,

¶ Islam.