What's in a name...
Jan. 24th, 2007 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
olorielI bought a murder mysteries book yesterday. An Icelandic murder mystery.
Murder mysteries are so not my genre. My interest in crime stories never really extended further than Enyd Blyton's Famous Five and Secret Seven or Astrid Lindgren's Kalle Blomquist, and that really hasn't changed. Meaning: Whodunnits on TV bore me, and murder mystery stories just don't get read. Unless the murder mystery is embedded into something that does interest me, like Fantasy or Sci-Fi or History.
My parents have developed a longing for Iceland.
That is partly amusing, as I had a 'zome iceland!' phase when I was, oh, twelve or so, and partly frustrating, as they never showed any inclination to go to Iceland back then (not that I wouldn't like going there now, but it's no longer leading the priority list, so to say). Currently, they seem to collect classy holiday destinations, which I somehow see as a sure sign that they're growing old. They've always liked travelling, but now it's influenced by "oh, this is such a hip destination!", no longer by "Oh, this is where we always went when I was a kid" or "Oh, I always wanted to go there" or "Oh, going there will give us the chance of discovering some family history!" or, on one memorable occasion, "Oh, our flight got cancelled due to the [first] Golf War, and Mallorca was the only alternative on such short notice". No; now suddenly they're going where you just have to have been. Which is fine, sure; it's just... something I find a little strange. It does happen to me that I read a book and want to go where it's set, of course. But it does not happen to me that I am told, or read somewhere, "This place is totally a must", and THEN read books about it until I believe I've always known that place and wanted to go there all my life.
Anyway.
I might use that as an excuse.
Or I might say that in Creative Writing, we were told to read a lot, and read books outside "the range of our present interests and tastes", to read books we wouldn't usually be interested in, just so our personal voice, or style, isn't drowned entirely by what we prefer, so our horizons broaden, so we know what today sounds like even if that's not what we want to sound like, so the plot bunnies can come from all-new directions. So reading a murder mystery is really just the noble quest for a broadened horizon. Yes, I could come up with some grandiloquent explanation like that. Lyra reading a thriller in order to become a better (hah, hah) writer.
The sad truth is that I saw the author's name and couldn't resist it. Yes, my friends, I am that sort of pathetic geek. In fact, the name of the author very much has to do with my "present interests and tastes", and that kind of voids the second reason anyway.
The name of the author is Arnaldur Indriðason.
Arnaldur. Indriðason.
Lyra is reading a blood'n'crime novel with a very simple, short-sentenced style and no sophisticated means of narration to speak of (although the plot itself is lovingly constructed with evil twists).
Just because the author happens to have a name that sounds like a Númenorean gone to hell and come back Rohirric or something and look there's an eth! Eeee!
... actually, I like the book. Not only for the names. And the short sentences are so refreshing after Tim Parks' bloody Europa with its endless pretentious "look at me! I'm James Joyce's little brother!" run-on sentences.
Arnaldur. Indriðason. *shakes head sadly* I am so predictable.
Murder mysteries are so not my genre. My interest in crime stories never really extended further than Enyd Blyton's Famous Five and Secret Seven or Astrid Lindgren's Kalle Blomquist, and that really hasn't changed. Meaning: Whodunnits on TV bore me, and murder mystery stories just don't get read. Unless the murder mystery is embedded into something that does interest me, like Fantasy or Sci-Fi or History.
My parents have developed a longing for Iceland.
That is partly amusing, as I had a 'zome iceland!' phase when I was, oh, twelve or so, and partly frustrating, as they never showed any inclination to go to Iceland back then (not that I wouldn't like going there now, but it's no longer leading the priority list, so to say). Currently, they seem to collect classy holiday destinations, which I somehow see as a sure sign that they're growing old. They've always liked travelling, but now it's influenced by "oh, this is such a hip destination!", no longer by "Oh, this is where we always went when I was a kid" or "Oh, I always wanted to go there" or "Oh, going there will give us the chance of discovering some family history!" or, on one memorable occasion, "Oh, our flight got cancelled due to the [first] Golf War, and Mallorca was the only alternative on such short notice". No; now suddenly they're going where you just have to have been. Which is fine, sure; it's just... something I find a little strange. It does happen to me that I read a book and want to go where it's set, of course. But it does not happen to me that I am told, or read somewhere, "This place is totally a must", and THEN read books about it until I believe I've always known that place and wanted to go there all my life.
Anyway.
I might use that as an excuse.
Or I might say that in Creative Writing, we were told to read a lot, and read books outside "the range of our present interests and tastes", to read books we wouldn't usually be interested in, just so our personal voice, or style, isn't drowned entirely by what we prefer, so our horizons broaden, so we know what today sounds like even if that's not what we want to sound like, so the plot bunnies can come from all-new directions. So reading a murder mystery is really just the noble quest for a broadened horizon. Yes, I could come up with some grandiloquent explanation like that. Lyra reading a thriller in order to become a better (hah, hah) writer.
The sad truth is that I saw the author's name and couldn't resist it. Yes, my friends, I am that sort of pathetic geek. In fact, the name of the author very much has to do with my "present interests and tastes", and that kind of voids the second reason anyway.
The name of the author is Arnaldur Indriðason.
Arnaldur. Indriðason.
Lyra is reading a blood'n'crime novel with a very simple, short-sentenced style and no sophisticated means of narration to speak of (although the plot itself is lovingly constructed with evil twists).
Just because the author happens to have a name that sounds like a Númenorean gone to hell and come back Rohirric or something and look there's an eth! Eeee!
... actually, I like the book. Not only for the names. And the short sentences are so refreshing after Tim Parks' bloody Europa with its endless pretentious "look at me! I'm James Joyce's little brother!" run-on sentences.
Arnaldur. Indriðason. *shakes head sadly* I am so predictable.
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no subject
Date: 2007-01-24 08:55 pm (UTC)And murder mysteries bore me to death - save for those by Dame Agatha and Sir Arthur who actually soothe me ... (or as you say, if the mystery is wrapped up in something else I adore).
Anyway, I am - as always - full of admiration for you.
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Date: 2007-01-24 11:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-25 11:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-24 09:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-24 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-24 10:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-24 09:42 pm (UTC)That is absolutely amazing.