It’s an honorable tradition amongst librarians to eke out our salaries reviewing books. Some of us get so addicted to the steady stream of reader copies and not very much money that we can’t imagine life without either, leading us to go years without reading anything not arriving in a padded envelope and to spend far too much on our beer, the right-sized use of the monthly check. We have had to read and review a great deal of awful stuff in our lives, but sometimes we get sent wonderful early books by new writers, and the tradition is to keep sending us that author as he or she cranks them out. That’s how we came to be followers of – Oh, damn. We can’t tell you. The latest from …………, which is like and not like his earlier stuff which was like itself only occasionally, won’t be out until fall. So we have to sit the particulars of what makes ……….. yet another work not to be missed. Sorry. Remind us this fall. Or buy us a drink.
Our other reading was the brief but v.v. entertaining I, Hogarth by Michael Dean which is very much out and which you may stop in and get if Scripsi has chopped up the cover and stuck the info in the back. We took it home fresh out of the box and zipped through it after finishing the above unnamed and liked it a lot. Dean quickly captures the antic feel of William Hogarth’s famous engravings, but reminds you that he was a painter first. This is one to read with the laptop at the elbow so you can look up works by Hogarth’s chums and other associates which is how we came on this fabulous dog by the French sculptor Louis-Francois Roubiliac who also sculpted Hogarth and their pal G.F. Handel.