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Weblog | I don't like the word blog, it's ugly. Anyway, new content happens here. (Swedish dito)

About me and the site | Twenty-something male who likes text. Obsessed with things such as books, reality, communication, and one or two tv-shows.

Archives | Things written here since... well, 2001. Some of it is good, some is utter shait.

Books | Books read, not books written. So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.

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Links | Outwards, away, flee.

e-mail | J. Nicklas Andersson

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2002-07-23

For once I didn’t hesitate and got indecisive. I simply stretched forwards and pulled Flann O’Brien’s At Swim-Two-Birds from the bookshelf. You know, the one that blocks the window. As I read it, line-by-line, I wonder why I didn’t read it immediately when it arrived a month ago.

So far, and for once I take it really slow as the book is rather short and I want it to last as long as possible, it is wonderful. The language. The characters. The way he builds everything up. Once again, I know I’ve said so elsewhere, I wish we could have had something of O’Brien’s books as course literature. (Still, I hesitate a bit to begin reading The Poor Mouth for obvious reasons.)

“Whether in or out, I always kept the door of my bedroom locked. This made my movements a matter of some secrecy and enabled me to spend an inclement day in bed without disturbing my uncle’s assumption that I had gone to the Collage to attend my studies.” (p.14, Penguin, 2000)

I’m starting to believe that it can’t be much better than this. And why is it that all the really great writers are dead? (Well, almost. Gene Wolfe still lives just to prove this theory wrong.)