As you may know I don't read that many books these days. I spend a lot of time online so it isn't as if I'm not reading, it's simply not literature.

In an attempt to change this I started reading a book given to me by my mother -Annie Proulx's Accordion Crimes.

I'm a few hundred pages in now and considering giving up. It's not difficult to read (unlike Atlas Shrugged), it's simply so miserable!

Each accordion's journey seems to involve misery, abuse, neglect, and toil. Lovely. My life is pretty wonderful but not so much so as to invite that kind of escapism. I've no interest in reading something that feels one step down from 1984.

What I cannot fault it on is its evocative atmosphere and frank grime. It feels dust-caked and grubby. When I've read a chunk I find myself wanting to make a cup of tea and look at something more pleasant - like Warhammer 40,000.

Perhaps I should take another run at my other book - a Swedish version of Generation Kill. The second invasion of Iraq is more cheerful than this metaphor-heavy tome.

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