Where an amateur attempts at divining somewhat passable insights.
For some reason, I've so far kept the likes of Franzen and Chabon, Foer and Smith, Wallace and Pynchon at an arm's length (more like a very long stick's length in the latter's case). But this afternoon, at one of the many bookstores in the Sydney city, where I was killing time before my job interview among the shelves of books at prices so marked down as to cause changes of pants and empty wallets, I picked up Telegraph Avenue at random and skimmed through it. That's when I knew I could no longer put off Chabon. Then, after rushing home, on a high from the more-or-less successful interview (my trial run starts Monday!), I fired up my Kindle and selected The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which if it were a person could probably relate to Bryan Cranston here:
On second thought, I ought to have started off with Chabon's worst books and then worked my way up, the same of which goes for Stephen King where I dove into It instead of, like, Cujo. The point is moot, anyway, as the only way anyone can make me drop this book now for another is if they pry my Kindle from my still-warm, lifeless hands. I had to stop reading for a moment at one point to be awed by the way Chabon described one of the main characters's eyes as being "wide-set blue eyes half a candle too animated by sarcasm to pass for dreamy," or by when he spoke of a character practicing a magic trick with "a masturbatory intensity of concentration." The imagination! If the rest of The Amazing Adventures is even half as fun as the preceding pages have been, I'm of a mind to, after securing my head inside a fish bowl with saran wrap, strap myself on to a rocket, go to space, bag myself five of the nearest and twinkliest stars, and mail them to wherever Chabon would then be, the kinks of which obviously need further consideration, without also hastening the man's death by exposing him to radiation, crushing him to death, or some such bad things stars do to us.