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The odyssey of memoir continues (see posts #1 and #2 here).

• Last week, Lucky, by Alice Sebold, the true story of AS's rape and assault as a college student in the 1980's. I re-read it in a day, marveling at her fearlessness in recounting what happened, and continued to happen. The rare combination of immediacy and retrospection. I did wish she'd lingered more in the aftermath, where she battled addiction and some emotional disorders, but overall it's one of the best I've read.
• I'm also about halfway through Martin Amis' Experience. This is my third or fourth re-read. MA is one of my absolute favorites (e.g. The Rachel Papers, The Information). I fold over the bottom edge of pages I wish to return to ("is it you, is it now?"), and already the book is accordioned with bent page-edges. He writes with depth and precision, he's funny, he's heartbreaking, he's honest. As a writer, I despair at just how truly talented he is and as a reader, well, I can't stop reading. 
• I wish I had so much enthusiasm for another book I've also halfway read, Boy Erased. I'm struggling. The subject matter is so familiar--kid raised in a hyper-religious household, questions of sexuality and power and faith. And yet--it's dull. Nothing compels me forward. It lacks specificity. I feel the author holding back, even though he's revealing some quite personal information. I'll finish it, but it's a trudge.