I mentioned to you beachcombers in my last Reads post that Gertrude Stein was getting my attention. Three Lives to be specific.

I got through the first story, unimpressed. As I attempted to make my way through the bigoted, condescending second story, I kept encountering problems with Microsoft Word (I was using that as my text reader). The more I told myself to stop reading the story because its crapulence wasn’t going away, the more my computer acted up. Eventually - kaput. My power supply, as it turned out, was on its way to its electric death, and fried up as I was giving my last shot at reading Three Lives. I got the message.

Now I have a kickass power supply that is actually rather energy efficient. See Mike for details. So now I need something else to read. Suggestions needed.

Mark another book off the book sale list. This time it was Bernard Malamud’s The Natural.

I’ve got mixed feelings on this one. It started off really good, got weird, then ended as expected. It had all the elements of the mystical sports story. The exaggerated emotions of triumph and agony, the hyper-importance of inconsequential competition. The overly-testosteroned men and the silly-twit women. There was still something likable about all of this despite how obvious the story line seemed to be.

I decided I have had enough with male-centered books. The last three were all like that. I’m going to have to deviate from my book sale books. Next on my reading list is some Gertrude Stein. That should balance me out for now.

Mario Puzo’s Fools Die is my latest read. Ugh. Why oh why oh why did I bother getting to the end? Seriously. This was one of those books that almost seemed like it was written by two people. The first half was alright. A pulpy, slightly wordy, Vegas/corruption style novel. About halfway through, maybe only a third, the book takes a turn for the bizarre and goes way down here from there. Spoilers from here on out.

After Merlyn, the lead character, sells his book and heads to Hollywood for the script writing, Fools Die goes to hell. This is where is seems like someone else started to write it. It became a self-loathing misogynistic drone. It became so obvious everyone but Merlyn dies. It really got so predictable. I can only rationalize that the reason I finished this book and didn’t dump it off like Puzo would have done in The Godfather was because it was Puzo. I expected so much more from him.

If nothing else, this book does have a few good death scenes. Jordan’s initial surprise death and of course, Cully’s well-written Japanese demise. Not enough to negate my distaste for this book.

We know Puzo can write death scenes. He can not develop believable female characters though, and that became so distracting that I found myself snickering at how silly it increasingly became. Seriously, not all women fit in the category of motherly saint or cunt (his word, not mine). It was repugnant after awhile, and I really probably shouldn’t have wasted my time finishing this.

This leaves me with a good feeling though - I can now start something new. Finally.

Ya’ar, Beachcombers. Flowing through my book sale books, I can now count Mutiny On The Whaleship Globe among the completed.

This is a non-fiction account by two survivors of a mutiny on an American whaleship in the South Pacific. Not only does the narrative include the mutiny but it also covers the subsequent life of the two survivors on tropical islands as servants/guests of some of the natives. Because the account was originally put down sometime after the incident (1824-1825), I had to reckon with some of the assumed racial superiority of the authors, which was common for that time. This wasn’t overwhelming enough to kill the story itself. It was a very compelling, and very short, read. Check it out, mateys.

Just rounded out two southern themed books (part of my library sale books).

First off was Tobacco Road by Erskine Caldwell. I wanted this book to be so much more than it was. Instead of it being a painfully/ironic/southern gothic story, it was just nothing. A whole lotta nothing. The end couldn’t come soon enough. Maybe I’ll be able to appreciate something in this book years from now that I’m just not getting at this time. But maybe not.

The second, um, book (?) with a southern theme, was not actually a book. It was Tennessee Williams’ play Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. I haven’t read a play in years and honestly didn’t think I’d like it. I was pleasantly proved wrong. This turned out to be a powerfully emotional story, a high southern drama.

The copy of Cat that I have, has both Williams’ original Third Act and director Elia Kazan’s influenced/rewritten Third Act. I prefer Williams’ original. It left much more to the imagination. It also highlighted Brick as more of a tragic fallen star, which appealed to me because Brick was the best developed and my favorite character in this play.

I know some of you beachcombers have dabbled in the theatre. Any of you work on Cat in any capacity? I’d love to hear your take.

Just finished a little book I picked up at the local Goodwill. In all honesty, I wasn’t thrilled with my choice but on that particular day, the book selection at Goodwill was sparse and I was really hungry just to read something. So I dropped a whole fifty-cents on Michael Crichton’s The Great Train Robbery and figured even if it sucked horribly, I wasn’t out all that much.

To my pleasant surprise, I really enjoyed this book. It is a fictionalized tale of an actual train robbery that took place in 1850’s England. If you aren’t big on historical fiction, this will not be the book for you. However, if you enjoy an interesting tale peppered with documented facts from the Victorian era, you’ll really like this one. Some of the reviews I read on the book before I started it complained that Crichton over-researched the book and inserted too much of that research into it, which for some, became a distraction. Myself, I liked that and thought it really helped set the mood for the actual story line.

The other bonus about this book is that it is littered with Victorian era slang. Dollymops, screwsmen, and reeb - were all common English at one time, apparently. Fun stuff.

I’d go on more, but my mouse batteries are dieing, we’re out of fresh batteries, and using keyboard commands are a real pain. Toodles, beachcombers.

The library had a book sale this weekend; And because the $1 hardcovers and 50¢ paperbacks were too much, Mike and I held off on going until today in order to take advantage of the bag sale. $2 for all you can fill into a grocery bag (their issue).

I got enough books to keep reading for quite sometime. Some are pulpy, others whimsical, and still others simple classics. Here’s what was in my bag, in order of how they are stacked on my desk right now:

Fools Die, Mario Puzo. I liked The Godfather so I figured I don’t have much to lose by grabbing up this one.

Mutiny on Board the Whaleship Globe : The Notorious 1824 Whaling Mutiny and Subsequent Massacre of the Marooned Ship’s Crew By South Sea Islanders, as Told By Two Survivors , William Lay and Cyrus M. Hussey. I love old books if only because their titles were so ridiculously long. This is a true history, compiled by Lay and Hussey from the actual records involving this mutiny. Should be pretty good and will hopefully satisfy my pirate/sailing adventure novel urge I get at least once a year.

Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, Tennessee Williams. A classic, right? I have no idea what this is about but I’ve heard of it. That counts for something.

Early Georgia, Volumes 26 and 27, The Society For Georgia Archaeology. Can you believe these aren’t linked on Amazon? These will probably prove to be completely worthless to me; But, you know, it said ‘early Georgia’ - it suckered me in.

The Natural, Bernard Malamud. I don’t think I’ve ever read sports fiction before. With baseball season just around the corner, this will probably get read sooner rather than later. The synopses I’ve read make it out to be a pretty good novel.

The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Victor Hugo. I was never forced to read this one over the years, so I’ll give it a go on my own. It has very, very, very small print. I already don’t like that. I won’t hold it against it if it turns out to be a good story. It better be better than that lame-ass Disney flick.

All The King’s Men (A Random House Play), Robert Penn Warren. In my excitement over finding the title to such a political classic (that I’ve thus far failed to read), I snatched this up with out opening it. Only upon coming home did I realize that this is a play adaptation of the actual novel. Meh. Guess that’ll learn me.

Tobacco Road, Erskine Caldwell. Of all the books I got, this one will be read first. I’ve been slowly making my way through southern gothic authors, but haven’t had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Caldwell. I’ve heard nothing but good things about his writing, and in particular, this book. I’m so all over it.

The Firm, John Grisham. Pulp to be sure, but Grisham is one of those guilty pleasures. His books make for great airplane reading. Now if I could only afford to fly somewhere…

The Cardinal of the Kremlin, Tom Clancy. So I’m probably the only person in America that has never read a Clancy novel. There were tons of them there. Mike pointed out this particular one to me, to which I opened my bag and said ‘drop it in.’ I have no idea if I have purchased book 3 of an 8 book series or maybe his worst novel ever. Someday, probably not too soon, I’ll know.

Live From New York: An Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live, as Told By Its Stars, Writers and Guests, James A. Miller and Tom Shales. This one will likely end up in the bathroom. Lots of short essays and chapters. Perfect on-the-go-while-going reading. Plus, this is one Mike may actually want to read. The bathroom is a certain spot he’ll remember to pick it up.

I love book sales almost as much as I do thrift stores. Other people’s used stuff at super discounted prices, huzzah!

The last books I read of 2007 were G.K. Chesterton’s The Napoleon of Notting Hill and Sinclair Lewis’ It Can’t Happen Here. For the end of the year, my reading took me on dystopian bent.

I liked Can’t Happen far better than Napoleon. In fact, it’s hardly fair to compare the two. Can’t Happen is one of the best books I read in 2007. Sinclair Lewis was painfully insightful at many points in this story. Sometimes I’m left wondering why I hadn’t read a particular author sooner. Such is the case with Lewis. How did I miss him? More to come certainly.

I really don’t feel like getting into a big review of either of these two books right now. I will leave you beachcombers with this quaintly naive and lovely sentiment from Chesterton in Napoleon:

Freedom of speech means practically in our modern civilization that we must only talk about unimportant things. We must not talk about religion, for that is illiberal; we must not talk about bread and cheese, for that is talking shop; we must not talk about death, for that is depressing; we must not talk about birth, for that is indelicate. It cannot last. Something must break this strange indifference, this strange dreamy egoism, this strange loneliness of millions in a crowd. Something must break it. Why should it not be you and I?

I finished Saki’s The Unbearable Bassington last week. It was uninspiring enough to prevent me from posting a review until now.

As much as I adore Saki, I wasn’t impressed with this book. Sure, it was filled with the remarkably clever one-liners and devilish sarcasm that I have come to love about Saki. The novel itself was a bit dry and rather predictable, however.

It had a lot of potential at the start, especially when setting up the character of Comus Bassington as a sadistic jackass during the school/caning scene in chapter II. I was almost sure I was seeing the makings of a Perry Cox-like figure, which would have been divine. Saki didn’t follow through though, and let the story be distracted by boring narratives of society life and fluff politics. So much potential and so little actualization. Oh well, there will be more Saki in my future. His writing has delighted me enough to convince me that the disappointment I found in The Unbearable Bassington was an anomoly.

I’m looking forward to the end of the holidays so I can get back to the library and get my hands on some non-ebooks. I think I need something a little more recently published. I just don’t have the time this month. As always, suggestions welcome.

On a related reading note, I signed up for an account at Good Reads. I get the impression (as indicated by the underwhelming lack of comments to my book posts) that none of you beachcombers gives a flying fart about what I read. I may keep my book list over there instead. Probably both places. This is my Club, afterall, I can post whatever the hell I damn well please. So suck it you non book readers. Yeah, and Merry Christmas too.

I’ve read a few short stories as of late in a futile attempt to sate my appetite for non-western lit. I’ve learned there isn’t much available in the form of free e-texts out there that qualify.

I first picked up Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin’s The Signal. Typically Russian - terse, brutal, bloody, and oddly communal. For what it was, I enjoyed it. It did go to reinforce some stereotypes I carry about Russian literature - well, except that this was only 6 pages.

I followed this up with Brazilian Tales, which was a translation of 6 short stories by -wait for it- Brazilian writers. I only read 5 of the 6. I got about 40 lines or so into ‘Life’ and knew there was not a chance I would finish it. The remaining stories were incredibly dull and lacking emotion, with the exception of Joaquim De Assis’s ‘The Attendant’s Confession.’ I quite enjoyed ‘The Attendant’s Confession.’ I found it to be in the vein of Edgar Allan Poe. One of those stories where the battle of conscience is at the core. I recommend you read that story and skip the rest of the Brazilian Tales.

In the mood for a Thanksgiving story, I set into Rebecca Harding Davis’ Jane Murray’s Thanksgiving Story. All I can tell you is - don’t bother. It’s complete tripe.

Despite my utter disregard for Davis’ Thanksgiving story, I think I’ll give her Life in the Iron Mills a shot. The biographies of Davis available online all seem to laud her as some socially progressive writer (before such terms were tainted with the stink of modern Democrats), which piques my interest. Iron Mills is allegedly one of her best works. We’ll see about that.

And like you care, but I’ve added a new category for things I read and review. That way you can skip these entries if fiction bores you to tears…ahem…Mike…

Finally managed to drag myself through Daniel Defoe’s Moll Flanders. Ugh, what a waste of time. A 17th century Jerry Springer episode. Woman born into crappy circumstances learns that she can get what she wants by using specific parts of her anatomy. Money grubbing and manipulating. But don’t worry, God comes in at the end and our Ricki Lake heroine repents. It was the 17th century afterall. So back to - ugh. Don’t waste your time.

I took an 180 degree turn after Moll Flanders and inhaled The Blind Owl. Inhaled is truly the only word to describe reading this Iranian classic by Sadeq Hedayat. I have absolutely no idea how to describe this novella. The plot was as elusive as the opium smoke quite often referenced in this book. Haunting, Poe-like imagery and Kafka-esque perplexity. I liked the story, but felt confused the entire time I was reading it as to whether I was missing something. After reading some reviews I found on teh interwebs, I believe this was the point.

I was happy to find Hedayat and think I need to expand my reading into more non-Western literature. Any suggestions?

As I previously stated last week, I started (and finished) Bram Stoker’s Dracula. I also plowed through H.G. Wells’ The Invisible Man.

It’s pretty obvious why Dracula has become nearly iconic in the horror fiction genre. This book had all the quintessential elements of a British, gothic story. The imagery was beautiful and so well detailed. Stoker had an incredible talent for creating exquisite illustrations for the reader’s mind. The only drawback for me was the obvious sexism that prevailed throughout the novel, which of course, was only a reflection of the time in which it was written. I still couldn’t help at being annoyed by the paternalistic overtones. This really wasn’t a big enough drawback for me to not recommend it to you beachcombers. It was an easy read and perfect for this time of the year.

No sooner did I finish Dracula, that I dove into The Invisible Man. I confess, I started reading this before I even noticed it was written by Wells. I was at least through the first chapter and onto the second before I scrolled up (e-book) and noticed I was reading Wells. It’s a good thing that I hadn’t noticed right away that it was a Wells novel. There is a strong likelihood that I wouldn’t have bothered with it had I noticed it. His abysmal The Time Machine had ruined me for Wells until now. The Invisible Man was quite redeeming.

I’m not a huge science fiction fan. If I do read any, I prefer it to be of this era (late Victorian/anytime Edwardian). The Invisible Man was nothing like I thought it would be. For some reason, I came into it with a preconceived notion that the Invisible Man was a sympathetic character. Without ruining it for you beachcombers that haven’t read this yet, let’s just say the Invisible Man was anything but sympathetic. This was a very easy read and isn’t very long. You could probably knock it out in a doctor’s waiting room. With health care being what it is, if you do read it in a doctor’s waiting room, you may actually become sympathetic with the Invisible Man.

So what to read next…hmmm…

My vacation reading consisted of a triple header of Dashiell Hammett detective novels - The Maltese Falcon, The Thin Man, and Red Harvest. Collectively - fabulously, fluffy holiday reads. A eyeful of delightful 30’s slang.

The Maltese Falcon

Meet Sam Spade. An iconic detective; catalyst for all sleuth stereotypes for decades to come. In fact, the whole novel seems to be the catalyst for flatfoot fiction novel stereotypes. Sam Spade is everything a detective of this era is supposed to be - sexist, sarcastic, and smart. It was delightful to read this book if only because it was like witnessing the genesis of almost every old time radio detective show ever recorded.

The actual plot line was a bit weak and rather predictable. I think this may be the case with most detective novels of the era, however. It was the character development and discourse among the characters that made this novel worth it. And for what it’s worth, Sam Spade’s supposed to be blonde so get those images of Humphrey Bogart out of your head before reading this.

The Thin Man

Almost equally as famous to Sam Spade in the world of fiction detectives, are Nick and Nora Charles. Hammett again shows his remarkable aptitude toward character development and delightful repartee. Nick Charles is a boozy, surly ex-detective dragged back into the realm of gumshoeing reluctantly. Like all good novels of the sort, he solves the crime, but does so in a really pissed off, stubborn sort of way. Nick’s hard edge is complimented by his socialite wife, Nora Charles. She certainly isn’t any softer than Nick. In fact, for a female character in this era in this kind of novel, she is rather unique. She is strong, unyielding, and takes no-nonsense from her hard-headed husband. Nora is an absolute delight and the interplay between her and Nick kicks a typical detective story up a few notches.

As part of the character development, Hammett made the Charleses complete booze hounds. A number of mornings for Nick and Nora had them drinking their breakfast. They continued this way throughout their day. And they weren’t just drinking the low alcohol content beer and wine. Oh no, they were professionals all the way - mixed cocktails morning noon and night. All this despite - or more so in spite of - the time frame of the story being set during the Prohibition.

Nick: “…I want a drink, please…”
Nora: “Why don’t you have some breakfast first…”
Nick: “…It’s too early for breakfast.”

Red Harvest

The least famous of these three novels, Red Harvest, was probably my favorite. While I ate up the incredible characters of the first two books, this book not only had the character development, but also had a great story line. I am really surprised to learn that this was never made into a movie. It would make an awesome story, even if it were modernized. It was only part detective novel, and also part gang war with the usual companion of official corruption. Funny thing is - the reader is never told the lead detective’s name. Quite a clever little addition not thrown in by Hammett. The title is misleading - it has nothing to do with Communism.

All three books were chock full of 30’s slang, which I think is the bee’s knees. Phrases like ‘dodging a rumpus’ ‘crack the hoosegow’ and ‘this is the bunk’ made all of these novels the cat’s meow. Made me think of Cyan - she’ll know why.

I’ve had my fill of detective novels for awhile and will be moving onto something else soon enough. I just don’t know what. Any recommendations, beachcombers?

I can only go so long with out giving into an indulgence of Edwardian fiction. Sating the craving this time around was E. M. Forster’s Howard’s End. This novel fit all the prerequisites for an Edwardian era book - predictable, stuffy, and exceedingly British. I wasn’t overwhelmed, but I’m usually not with these types of books. They’re mostly eye candy.

I was intrigued by the book’s theme of social and economic class differences. While most of the points were obvious, there were a few gems. One such gem is when two of the main characters, society women both, are at a luncheon with friends discussing how they would leave their fortunes if they were even richer than they already were. Most at the lunch were enchanted with the nouveau philosophy of Socialism, and suggested starting various charities or foundations dictating how their money would help society. The pragmatist main character, Meg, annoyed with the idea that people on the receiving-end of welfare should be told how to live, declares, “Why not give him the money itself?” Exchanges like these put Howard’s End in the upper ranks of Edwardian novels.

All and all it was pretty much what I expected and exactly what I wanted for a little summer fluff. Next up is a 3 books 1 combo I picked up from the library - all Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon, The Thin Man, and Red Harvest. Classic mystery novels, perfect summer vacation reading.

I guess I promised to write about Jeff Lindsay’s second book in the ‘Dexter’ series - Dearly Devoted Dexter and I wouldn’t want you beachcombers to think I don’t keep my promises. Of course, I do prefer to move on southern time, so slow going is to be expected.

Like so many sequels, this was good but didn’t live up to the first. Without giving too much away, most of the story focused on this whole ex-Special Forces scenario, which wasn’t quite as well developed as I could have hoped. There was a twist in regards to the ‘love life’ of Dexter which I thought was amusing (especially with regards to the children of Dexter’s ‘girlfriend’.) I normally don’t like the love interest aspect in most stories and usually find them more of a distraction, but this fit well.

I’ve read around teh interwebs that Lindsay should have a third Dexter book out this August or September. I’ll let you know what I think of it then.

Yeah, yeah another book review.

I just flew through Jeff Lindsay’s Darkly Dreaming Dexter. It’s an ironically humorous tale told from a serial killer’s perspective. Humorous, that is, if you like really dark humor. From what I’ve been told, this book was the basis for a Showtime series entitled Dexter, but I’ve never seen it and probably never will. Which is as well because I can be one of those book snobs that can’t stop comparing a crappy show/movie to the much better book.

Lindsay did a great job of creating a sympathetic serial killer. One of the highlights was how the tale switched between a straight, first-person narration and a stream of consciousness narration to help define Dexter’s moods. It was a great technique, which resulted in me being in the odd position of rooting for a serial killer. A bit off-putting, but a good book is supposed to stir unusual emotion, right? RIGHT?

Apparently, Lindsay has another Dexter book published. I hope to be able to get to the library this weekend to check it out.

Ok, enough screwing off. I need to get ready for tonight’s live broadcast of America’s Debate Radio. Tune in beachcombers, make me feel special!

This weekend I flew through J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. Like I said last entry, I am very glad I wasn’t forced to read this during my schooling. An English teacher would have certainly ruined this delicious novel for me. This book captured the essence of jaded adolescence and no adult could have aptly explained it to my teenage self. Having to write a related essay on it would have missed the point entirely.

Salinger did a marvelous job of bringing youthful angst, confusion, and cynicism to life. His first person narrative as the now classic Holden Caufield couldn’t have been more perfect. It is no wonder so many people sing the praises of Catcher in the Rye. Every one of us has a little Holden inside.

One thing I didn’t extract from this book, which I found in a few reviews, was that the story was related by Holden from a mental hospital. I didn’t find that to be the case. Seems Salinger won’t say either way.

I’m almost sorry I picked Salinger for this year’s death pool. At least I finally got around to this great classic. Catcher in the Rye is worthy of its label as classic.

I know this blog has devolved (evolved?) to nothing more than book reviews, but reading is the only thing I’ve been doing lately worth blogging.

Yesterday, I finished Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood. I’m a huge fan of O’Connor’s short stories but had never read any of her novels until now. Reviews on teh interwebs said this was supposed to be her best. Yet another reminder not to believe everything (anything) you read on teh interwebs.

I didn’t get it. The entire book was shallow. The characters incomplete. The story line was dis-jointed and rambling. I so wanted to like it because I just adore O’Connor’s short stories. They are some of the best I’ve ever read. So I was disappointed that this book was so flat.

It began with so much potential. The story started as a caustic strike on religion, specifically Catholicism. Very typical O’Connor, and I thought it would really lead somewhere. About half-way through, I started to question if the story was really developing. Three-quarters of the way through I was in serious doubt but figured I had gotten that far so I finished it. The ending was the most disappointing. It closed with an emotional introspective of a character that had made no previous appearance in the entire book and seemed completely out of place.

My only hope is that somehow this book will sink in at a later date and I will realize what I missed. This happened with me with Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. When I initially read that book, I was indifferent and I thought the ending really sucked. Somewhere along the line, I came to appreciate Grapes of Wrath much more and realized the ending was actually one of the most incredible closings to a story I’ve ever read. So maybe Wise Blood will come back to me in the same way. No breath-holding, however.

Next up, and about half-way through, is J.D. Salinger’s classic Catcher in the Rye. Somehow, I was never forced to read this book in school and I’m glad of that. So far, I’m enthralled. Salinger’s writing styles is raw and rambling in a drunken-friend sort of way. I’m hoping to be done with it by tomorrow before the library closes so I can return these books and get some more before the weekend ends.

Any suggestions for new reads? I’m all eyes.

The culmination of a riveting novel can mildly be equated to losing an old friend. Such was the case as I finished Raphael Sabatini’s Captain Blood.

This was a fantastic adventure of the articulate, intelligent Peter Blood - Irish doctor turned pirate captain. No doubt, Sabatini’s novel was loosely based on the true life of Henry Morgan. He even references as much within the novel itself. This book had all the elements that make a good pirate tale - vindication, vengeance, finesse, triumph, despair, and success. It even had a side-line love story that actually did not distract from the story, but enhanced it - which is a rarity it seems. The ending, specifically the closing lines, could have been a little better developed. All in all, however, I have no complaints with this novel. It succeeded in every aspect in spinning the quintessential pirate tale.

A good book can be haunting in that it revisits me in unusual and on unexpected times. Captain Blood will forever be with me. Sabatini succeeded in creating an incredible story. I’d recommend this to all of you beachcombers. Yar!

Through a recommendation by TitaniumDreads at Voodoo Knickers, I managed to track down what I believe is the only free, online copy available of the book The Autobiography of a Supertramp by W.H. Davies.

This was the exact whimsy I was looking for. It’s the true tale (hence autobiography) of W.H. Davies’ days in the U.S., Canada, and the UK as a homeless (by choice) man who tramped around, rode the rails, and saw parts of these countries we can now only imagine. I really enjoyed this book. It has that classic, triumph over hardship thing going on, and that it is true makes it even more special. There was one chapter that made me terribly uncomfortable; it was the one entitled ‘A Lynching’ - I think you’ll be able to guess why even if you don’t get around to reading this book. I definitely recommend this one. It’s a very quick read, although you’ll probably want to cut and paste the book into your own text browser because the freepages site is just plain ugly (and yes it turns to actual text after chapter three).

Now that the summer weather is here, I’m back into adventure novel mode. On my plate right now is Rafael Sabatini’s Captain Blood. I’m only a few chapters in, but I’m liking it so far. I’ll get you a more complete review when I’m done with it.

Remember beachcombers -reading’s for the cool kids. What has been your book of choice these days?