So you’ve bounced off and left me on my own, now, have you? I’m not surprised. It’s been a few days since I’ve written here.
I don’t have much time to write reviews just now, though I have been reading voraciously. I’ve also not thought much about the Stewart family and The Nothing Man. They’re on holiday, anyway. The only thing I was really fussed to write was Episode 12 of Dorothy: Locked and Loaded.
When/if you go over there to read, have a look at the “Which is your favourite character” poll and vote for one, if you are so inclined. Please, it does not have to be Dot, because I’m very used to being the least favourite in every crowd. 🙂
What I have been doing is squealing with delight as I discover new, less-popular works of some of the noted authors of the early, early 20th Century. As God is my witness, I’ve not bought a book, but I have raided Project Gutenberg and the public domain on nearly a daily basis.
As I tend to do, unless a book is fast-paced and a quick read, I jump from title to title, muttering, “oooh, shiny!”
The past couple of days, I’ve picked up a few Welty and Ferber titles, more in novella form than in full blown novels. They’re light and fun, and yet I can still dive into some deeper Upton Sinclair and manage it as well.
More power to the lot of you who can read 800 page novels (James McShane and company) in the summertime, but my brain just cannot take it all in.
Here is what I am reading this week:
Buttered Side Down by Edna Ferber
Roast Beef, Medium by Edna Ferber
Metropolis by Upton Sinclair
To give you a taste of the most interesting Edna Ferber, here is her introduction to Roast Beef, Medium. Now I am off to read for a few days. Enjoy!
Seated at Life’s Dining Table, with the Menu of Morals before you, your eye wanders a bit over the entrees, the hors d’oeuvres, and the things a la, though you know that Roast Beef, Medium, is safe, and sane, and sure. It agrees with you. As you hesitate there sounds in your ear a soft and insinuating Voice.
“You’ll find the tongue in aspic very nice today,” purrs the Voice. “May I recommend the chicken pie, country style? Perhaps you’d relish something light and tempting. Eggs Benedictine. Very fine. Or some flaked crab meat, perhaps. With a special Russian sauce.”
Roast Beef, Medium! How unimaginative it sounds. How prosaic, and dry! You cast the thought of it aside with the contempt that it deserves, and you assume a fine air of the epicure as you order. There are set before you things encased in pastry; things in frilly paper trousers; things that prick the tongue; sauces that pique the palate. There are strange vegetable garnishings, cunningly cut. This is not only Food. These are Viands.
“Everything satisfactory?” inquires the insinuating Voice.
“Yes,” you say, and take a hasty sip of water. That paprika has burned your tongue. “Yes. Check, please.”
You eye the score, appalled. “Look here! Aren’t you over-charging!”
“Our regular price,” and you catch a sneer beneath the smugness of the Voice. “It is what every one pays, sir.”
You reach deep, deep into your pocket, and you pay. And you rise and go, full but not fed. And later as you take your fifth Moral Pepsin Tablet you say Fool! and Fool! and Fool!
When next we dine we are not tempted by the Voice. We are wary of weird sauces. We shun the cunning aspics. We look about at our neighbor’s table. He is eating of things French, and Russian and Hungarian. Of food garnished, and garish and greasy. And with a little sigh of Content and resignation we settle down to our Roast Beef, Medium.