somewhat slow and anticlimactic

There is something to be said about not having anything to say.

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I've recently finished David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day, which was not a bad thing to have had with me on the morning commute for a few days. But I think I was expecting the essays to build up to something more than they did. Sure they're mildly amusing, but then what?

Also, Camus' The Plague was somewhat slow and anticlimactic. Not nearly as good as The Stranger or, in the plague genre, Jose Saramago's Blindness.

If anyone would like to debate this or simply has some insight into whatever allegory The Plague represents (besides "evil"), I'd be interested to hear it.

Next up: Barack Obama's Dreams From My Father. It's non-fiction, so perhaps I'll be a little more accepting of the story than I was of Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner.

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Oh, and lest you think I'm nothing but a critic -- I'm writing again. Fiction, I mean. At least, I'm trying to, whenever I can spare an hour in the evenings. Nothing concrete yet, just trying things out again. We'll see where it leads.