I discovered at lunch today that my book club meets this Sunday, and I’d yet to get the book, let alone start reading it. So, in direct contrast to the Lemony Snicket fest of this last week, I am using part of my day off to read a book that is described on the cover as “…a Graham Greene thriller projected through the sensibility of Virginia Woolf.” In other words, a great beach read.
The person I borrowed it from (who shall remain nameless, since she’s in my book club, and we have an unwritten rule to NOT discuss the book before we meet) described it as “irritating, then it gets good, then it gets irritating again.” Now, normally, this would just be mildly annoying. Just one of those instances where book club pushes me to expand my scope of reading material, and explore an author or style of literature that I’d normally shy away from. Good to do every now and then. But I was all set to read Devil in the White City, the non-fiction murder mystery set at the Chicago Worlds’ Fair of 1893. So for me, it’s a little like getting my heart set on eating a particular food or dining at a particular restaurant, and then not. And anyone who knows me can tell you that nothing puts me in a pissy, bad mood faster than having my food-expectation shattered. Nothing. (Insert childish little tantrum here.)