Today I finished reading Boxer, Beetle by Ned Beauman – the first fiction novel I’ve got through in probably nearly a year.
Considering that I am a) historically an avid reader b) a literature graduate and c) ostensibly a writer, that is a pretty pathetic statement. I have been reading, it’s just that it’s been solely non-fiction (economics, mostly) and plays as I tried to understand the world and turn that understanding into something you’d pay a fiver to come and watch.
So what about what I read then? Boxer, Beetle is a neat little read and it was great to grapple with something that has a large (and disjointed) narrative arc. More particularly, I forget how humour plays off different in books than it does on the stage and page. The similies in this novel are ludicrous and it’s worth the read for them alone.
Books, I’ve missed you. Welcome back into my life.