Tis the season for face shooting murders

I was a little weary about reading a true-life suspense/thriller (can I classify it as such?) genre, but In Cold Blood was not what I was initially imagining. What I was thinking it would be, was something along the lines of Dateline with stock photo-esque imagery meant to illustrate generic small town settings, with a syrupy voiceover. Instead, from the very first sentence, Capote had me respecting the difference. Though the story is non-fiction, it read like any well-written novel. The author took care to understand every character so that the reader was able to trust the facts as accurately depicted. There is emotional depth, and no biased finger-pointing in any direction but to state the facts as they were given.
I thought the first few chapters before the murders were artful. Chapters weaved in and out, trading perspectives between the killers' and the victims', which was a very successful way to keep the reader interested and attached. It is also interesting to me how much I liked the Clutters...their clearly religious (and fairly virginal), Southern ideals would most certainly ordinarily have bothered me, but I felt nothing of the sort. I do admit that perhaps Capote went too far into idealizing the members of this family, but perhaps it's true that this is the way they were perceived by the community.
I'm very attracted to the way Capote writes, and am interested in reading more of his books. I can see very beautiful stories coming in the context of lighter subject matter, but for him to have executed a story of murder in such a gentile way lends a favorable eye to his talents.

As for the next book, I've finally gotten a hold of Contact and I'm very excited. While meeting a friend after work, I stopped by the Barnes & Noble which, for some reason was filled with teenagers at 8.30pm. Is that the cool thing to do these days? There could be much worse things, I suppose. Anyway with the loss of Borders it seems as though I'm going to (regretfully) have to become a B&N fanboy.

In other news, over this Halloween weekend I have caught a terrible cold/flu(?). I'm pretty sure it's from touching things on the el, which is a very disgusting thought that I try not to dwell on. My throat is terribly angry with me, and I feel like dying. It has deprived me of sleep and this morning on my ride to work I almost fell asleep on 94 a number of times. Misery. This may in fact be the death of me if this persists.

50/1001!!

It's cause for a little celebration! I have reached 50 books read from the list, boosting my confidence a smidgen to the possibility of actually completing all of the books at some point in my lifetime.

The fiftieth book was The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. The novel fit in with the usual style in the interest of the person whom I received it (one such previous book received is most notably, Saturday) -- minimal plot pervaded by a stillness short of despair. Loneliness blanketed every aspect of Kundera's characters and my reaction was a pitied distaste at their incapabilities of being happy. It isn't that I needed them to be in fanciful relationships, I appreciate that there was turmoil in even the truest of "love", but I think mainly I just couldn't agree with most of the ways that the characters reasoned. Tereza, especially, did not appeal to me as I was incredibly turned off by her weakness. In Sabina I found the most connection and her hold on Franz as an idealic ghost resounded in me of its purity and beauty.
It was striking to me that the most emotional part of the story was represented by Tereza's love for a dog. I'm not quite sure how I feel about this...at first I was displeased by it because it seemed to me ill-fitting and reaching out to some sort of niche category of melodramatic (though powerful) stories about man's love for animals, but now I find value in the dog's role. He is, after all, the only character without any ugliness whatsoever. That is true to life.

For my next read, I was dead-set on reading Carl Sagan's "Contact", but having gone to both a used and new book store today (which, as a sidenote, reaffirmed my infinite love for bookstores which have the magical power to inflate me with the warmest of happiness) and was unable to find it, I think I am going to have to order it online. I didn't want to waste valuable reading time while I wait, however, so I bought Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. I see at least a few nights of being scared alone in my apartment coming on.

#445

While I am still reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, I was simultaneously enjoyingFranny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger over the past few days via internet. I chose it for its brevity, which I assumed would be more readily available for online viewing (especially since I am technologically inept and have a hard time finding anything for free. sad face).

I had been interested in the book for about a year because a favorite professor of mine had recommended it, but could not bring myself to buy it due to its thinness in comparison to many of th

e other books on the list. Therefore I am happy to have been able to find it online, especially as I did enjoy it and am glad to have been afforded a free fulfillment of entertainment in my time of dire need (I am at the poorest I have ever been in my entire life. The times are not lending themselves very well to the youth in terms of being able to claim these years as the best of our lives).

I think penning a boy named Zachary as Zooey to be quite charming and fitting of his East-Coastian academically high-brow nature. I did, however, have an erroneous pre-conception that the stories were about two girls, and therefore had to keep reminding myself that Zooey was the brother.

"Franny"-the first story-reminded me of Hemingway's Hills Like White Elephants in its style and tone, which I have a certain fondness for that I have no idea wherefore (perhaps for its ability to unsettle me? Anyway, I do love me a short story without a visible plot. I used to yearn to write in such a way as that story while I had short story classes in college, in the face of a teacher who adamantly preached otherwise). This first story actually had me missing university (mind you, not college, as I attended art school and not a real university), but in the sort of way that I was missing experiences that I never actually had. Strange, really, because I was feeling like I actually did have those memories. I do find it interesting though how vividly the story leaves an impression of pregnancy. I read a few criticisms of the work after I was through and they all shared that feeling with me, which I find queer.

I like both parts, but emotionally, "Zooey" was a bit more captivating. Stronger dialogue and deeper revelations. I think Salinger successfully illustrates familial love and personal uncertainties here, in the way of young people. Franny goes from being a sort of annoyingly juvenile young person, to a snotty well-to-do student, to a relatable young person contemplating her values. I encourage this read wholeheartedly.