Why don't I blog about books?

People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading.
Logan Pearsall Smith, Afterthoughts (1931) "Myself"

The above has been my motto for a long time. So why don't I write some witty, insightful criticism about some of my favorites? Well, partially because I frequently write reviews.

Reviews are tough. It's extraordinarily hard to find something original to say in praise of something you really like. It's also tough to criticize someone who has labored long and hard to produce a worthy but dull book.
Once, but only once, I wrote a truly scathing review--and the author called me!

Okay. I will now mention some books I've recently read and enjoyed.

Natasha by David Besmogiz: the Interpreter of Maladies, by Jhumpa Lahiri;and the Tula Springs novels of James Wilcox.

One of my all-time favorites: Morte d'Urban, by J. F. Powers. Powers wrote lapidary prose that was as clear as a window pane. He is dead now, and his output was pitifully scant. Morte d'Urban is a masterpiece.

One of the most hilarious books I have ever read is Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis.