This blog is intended to be, as the sub-header would suggest, a place for me to discuss the ideas, musings, and inner ramblings that come forth when I read a book. And for my experience volunteering with those dealing with mental health and drug addiction issues, among others, I ought to have some unique thoughts that have come from my time with Postcards. And failing any of those, maybe something should come forth on the topic of celebrity-worship in the western world, particularly the United States, especially since such adoration has probably increased in the years since Fisher (a surprisingly adept and nimble writer) wrote this book.
Strangely, nothing. And it's not due to anything lacking in the book. I admit I picked up Postcards on the cheap from an Oxfam in England out of curiosity for Fisher's prose, and because the back of the version I have includes praise from Tom Robbins. And considering those circumstances, it was much, much better than I would have guessed -- insightful, sometimes funny, seldom sardonic but more often witty, with the characters (particularly the main one) a delightful bundle of contradictions and confusions. I enjoyed it greatly. But it also sparked no great inner discourse or diatribe. Does that mean I was feeling particularly un-scholarly, or that this book is no piece of literature? Hardly. It just means that when our paths met, we said hi and shook hands before parting ways. Not every good book can be your dearest friend.
But this blog is also a chance to chronicle, for personal reference more than anything, the books that I've read. So here it is.
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Once again, I'm several books behind. I'm going to see how I can do at catching up this week. Any bets?
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