repinasvetdb3b

من عند La Esperanza, الاكوادور من عند La Esperanza, الاكوادور

قارئ من عند La Esperanza, الاكوادور

من عند La Esperanza, الاكوادور

repinasvetdb3b

The concept of this book, essays about a contemporary author's reading experiences, is oh so very appealing. Actually reading this book is not so pleasant. Nick Hornby's act of writing these essays is probably more meaningful than the act of me reading them. To put it another way, Hornby's revelations likely mean more to him than me. To be fair, if I wrote these type of essays, they probably wouldn't mean much to anyone besides myself either. (Probably like these book reviews don't mean much to anyone but me.) To be even fairer, I tried to read these essays all in one go, even though the original intent was for them to be read one by one, month by month. The thing that I enjoyed most about these essays is also the thing I detested the most: Hornby is so damn clever. I often laughed out loud and quite enjoyed some insights about the human condition and some inspired word play. However, a lot of what Hornby said was up there with nonsense to me. I didn't understand many of his theories or even some concepts he described from the books he read. Worse, I didn't feel inclined to take the time to tease out the meanings. The jacket of this book was like a trailer that was more fun to watch than the actual movie. However, Hornby still struck a chord. He still made me want to read. He still made me want to look up references. He reminded me of projects I needed to get back to and further ways to think. And I think that if I do not like reading about the results of one of his literary games, but still find interest in the game, then I should still be glad for the value of being introduced to a new game that I can play to my own advantage and to a more satisfactory outcome.