I’ve just finished reading Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Marriage Plot.
The book captivates anyone who calls themselves collegiate, and you learn a lot about English literature, religion and even biology.
The Virgin Suicides‘ penner and winner of the Pulitzer Prize thanks to Middlesex narrates in a richer way than the attempting-at-disinterested-which-turns-into-resentment in Suicides.
Reading it felt like an ego stroke to the laureates of English classes past, but I still enjoyed references to some of the stuff I’ve been reading in class — Barthes, even Mother Courage and Her Children.
It made it even more surreal that we read Suicides this semester — and reading an author I’ve studied’s writings about authors I’ve studied is simply surreal.
But the lucid, flavorful narration doesn’t detract from the story about, as harsh as it sounds, fairly privileged Brown grads trying to figure out life after undergraduate studies.
And, for me, this read couldn’t be any more relevant to my life.
I’ve had fun looming on the future while reading this one over the past several days.
Now I gotta read The Art of Fielding next because, you know, typographical covers are super in right now, so the books bound to them have to be just as incredible.
At least this proved more than true for The Marriage Plot.