Sometimes I wonder why I even try to read contemporary literary fiction. I have zero patience for reading about moody, dysfunctional characters in sad, hopeless, real-life situations. I just want to smack them. Therefore, I rarely pick up art-type fiction that looks like it might be too depressing or disturbing. I tried reading Adverbs recently by Daniel Handler (aka Lemony Snickett) but had to put it aside - too many self-centered people (well actually, the same people, different settings) in dire need of a good head smack. I never could get through the Lemony Snickett books (for children!) either - though the unfortunate Baudelaire children did try mightily, I found it way too frustrating that they could NEVER CATCH A BREAK. A Series of Unfortunate Events is certainly a wonderful read, but so freaking frustrating!
So anyway, imagine my delight at picking up The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern and falling solidly in love with a book again. I admit to hesitancy in cracking this one open as circuses and Claudia do NOT mix. [I totally blame Hoxie Brothers and a certain aunt who shall remain nameless for my long-standing circus-horror ("Come on, Claud, let's take the kids to the circus - it'll be fun!). Right - clowns, sad, smelly, large animals. I became deathly ill from circus germs and had to miss The Who concert. No fun at all.]
The Night Circus, however, is a whole other beautiful something and deserves its own essay space. Tomorrow, I promise. --cds
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