Coraxo

Preliminary exams coming up. Been nailed to books for a few hours this morning, in fact studied my eyes out the past couple of weeks. What a fucken bore. I hope I don't have to read sentences like this: 'To say that diachrony and synchrony are not in reality distinct dimensions is not to invalidate the idealization that makes them distinct, but only to set limits on its claims to absolute validity' (taken from H.G. Widdowson's Linguistics) never again. Thank heatens, I don't get distracted by loud noises or different substances. Right now I'm listening to Impaled Nazarene's live CD "Death Comes In 26 Carefully Selected Pieces", drinking coffee (black) and wine (red).
One of the books to read was, thankfully, a novel; J.M. Coetzee's "Disgrace." What I've seen all the literary enthusiasts have been all jazzed up about this award-winning South African author. I am not. At least, as far as this book is concerned (I'm reading it for the 3rd time), he's not that good really. Yea, some nice lyrical insights, in-depth prose whatever, decent even heartfelt (a dog dies in the end so you can sit the fuck down and weep) storytelling, but I got the feeling that sometimes Mr. Coetzee tried it a little bit too hard; take, for instance, this sentence: "His needs turn to be too quite light, after all, light and fleeting, like those of a butterfly". Crap. Plain and simple. Even if I believed that he knows something about butterflies' needs, that wouldn't be too interesting in the long run. Gladly, I don't need to read this book for any longer than a week and I can change to authors who really interest me. George Pelecanos has a new book out, so does Michael Connelly and I probably have missed a book or two by Chuck Palahniuk, James Lee Burke, Paul Auster, Jeffery Deaver, Don Delillo and Dennis Lehane.