Book ends, book begins
I am currently finishing one book and starting another, both bought for me by my lovely lady.
The former is a half-ghosted effort concerning West Indian cricketing great Sir Clyde Walcott and while it is interesting, it is just so badly written, as though a contract was had for 100,000 words and when they got to 80,000, Brian Scovell (the actual 'writer' of this 'autobiography') just threw in irrelevant facts to flesh it out. Needless to say, it reads very oddly.
As an example: "Ali Bacher said to me, 'Clyde, you are a statesman, you are looking at all the issues and I am aware of that'. I have always got on well with Ali, who was a gynaecologist before becoming a cricket administrator". Good to know, I guess.
Also, would someone apparantly recounting their life story inform people of the batting average of almost everyone he came across in his cricketing career? Apparently so, according to this effort.
The book I have just started is quite different, and while a novel, it is supposed to be heavily autobiographical. It was written by Woody Guthrie, and before I recieved it for my last birthday, I did not even know it existed (genius present buying from the good lady). Who says I know my onions? It ain't so.
Whereas the words attached to Sir Clyde are stilted and weird, Guthrie, as you might expect, writes in southern dialect which does take some time to get your head around. Granted, I have only just started it, and thus far I am still with the initial scene of guys hopping a train, sleeping like sardines, drinking and fighting, but the language is so rich and distinct, it feels very real, so I can believe that it stems from Woody's experience of riding the rail, a musical hobo escaping the Dust Bowl.
As you might expect from America's foremost 20th century folk-poet, there are some cracking lines...
"A red eyed vino drunkard took a man by the feet and pulled him along the deck to the door. 'My buddy. Ain't said a word since I loaded 'im in last night in Duluth. Bummed th' main stem fer two bits, then he scooped his flue'"
and
"Rougher than a cob. Wilder than a woodchuck. Hotter than a depot stove. Madder than nine hundred dollars. Arguing worse than a tree full of crows. Messed up. Mixed up. A crazy boxcar on a wild track. Headed sixty miles an hour in a big cloud of poison dust due straight to nowhere".
Beautiful.
The former is a half-ghosted effort concerning West Indian cricketing great Sir Clyde Walcott and while it is interesting, it is just so badly written, as though a contract was had for 100,000 words and when they got to 80,000, Brian Scovell (the actual 'writer' of this 'autobiography') just threw in irrelevant facts to flesh it out. Needless to say, it reads very oddly.
As an example: "Ali Bacher said to me, 'Clyde, you are a statesman, you are looking at all the issues and I am aware of that'. I have always got on well with Ali, who was a gynaecologist before becoming a cricket administrator". Good to know, I guess.
Also, would someone apparantly recounting their life story inform people of the batting average of almost everyone he came across in his cricketing career? Apparently so, according to this effort.
The book I have just started is quite different, and while a novel, it is supposed to be heavily autobiographical. It was written by Woody Guthrie, and before I recieved it for my last birthday, I did not even know it existed (genius present buying from the good lady). Who says I know my onions? It ain't so.
Whereas the words attached to Sir Clyde are stilted and weird, Guthrie, as you might expect, writes in southern dialect which does take some time to get your head around. Granted, I have only just started it, and thus far I am still with the initial scene of guys hopping a train, sleeping like sardines, drinking and fighting, but the language is so rich and distinct, it feels very real, so I can believe that it stems from Woody's experience of riding the rail, a musical hobo escaping the Dust Bowl.
As you might expect from America's foremost 20th century folk-poet, there are some cracking lines...
"A red eyed vino drunkard took a man by the feet and pulled him along the deck to the door. 'My buddy. Ain't said a word since I loaded 'im in last night in Duluth. Bummed th' main stem fer two bits, then he scooped his flue'"
and
"Rougher than a cob. Wilder than a woodchuck. Hotter than a depot stove. Madder than nine hundred dollars. Arguing worse than a tree full of crows. Messed up. Mixed up. A crazy boxcar on a wild track. Headed sixty miles an hour in a big cloud of poison dust due straight to nowhere".
Beautiful.
posted by skif at
11:45 am
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