By Bianca Ozeri
Still falling prey to an inexcusable lethargy, I’ve continued reading short stories instead of returning to Shantaram, the 900-page novel I picked up six months ago about an Australian bank robber fugitive who escapes to Mumbai, joins the mafia, and falls in love. I’m about half way through, and my temporary abandonment of the narrative is no indication of it’s value. It is triumphant prose, all the more dazzling for being written by this guy (for real):
I’m sure I’ll pick it up again soon, but for the time being, I’m reading short stories: ephemeral things I think on for days.
Today I read the hilarious, “The Death of a Government Clerk” by Anton Chekhov, a man who, if I’m not mistaken on her taste, could easily end up on Brie’s “Dead Men I’d Like to Have Married” list.
(Side note from Brie: Yum.)