A few weeks ago, one of my colleagues decided to form a bookclub. Always eager for an excuse to read, I signed up. Our first meeting, which was today, was to discuss our first book, which was one I’d suggested: Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen. I’d already read it.
I enjoyed it: in a lot of ways, it reminded me of HBO’s Carnivale. It’s essentially a story of a kid who winds up in a circus during the Great Depression, and his trials as he becomes caretaker to Rosie, a supposedly dumb-as-bricks elephant, and falls in love with Marlena, a performer married to a violent psychopath.
The overwhelming opinion of the rest of the bookclub was that it was, eh, a nice story, but hardly a spectacular work of literary genius. Either they’re all snobs, or I’ll just read anything. Maybe it’s a little of both, certainly, I’ve always considered myself a book snob. Still, it’s always nice — well, maybe not so nice, in this case — to hear other peoples’ opinions.
Even if they’re all wrong. (Okay, maybe I’m a little bitter…)
Next up: Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood.
