Last night I finished reading Simone de Beauvoir: A Biography – all 600 something pages of it – then launched right into her own 600+ page book, The Mandarins. Man, the first chapter alone was so poignant; I found myself exclaiming, “Harsh!” out loud after reading the final scene between Henri and Paula. I can certainly see why the friends she patterned these characters after would be upset… I have to admit that this is actually the first de Beauvoir book I’ve read. I picked up the biography because I’ve read so much about the turn of the century French art and intellectual scene, I though I might enjoy her story, as well.

I’d read Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea, a few years back. I found it in a box of Ryan’s college books. He said he didn’t care for it, but I enjoyed it. Of course, I also enjoyed Crime and Punishment, which a lot of folks seem to find unreadable these days. I have a pretty high tolerance for “unreadable” literature in general, owning a fairly complete collection of William S. Burroughs and more than one book each by Gertrude Stein and James Joyce. (I was going to type a tongue-sticking-out smiley here, but on second thought, it seemed inappropriate.)

My favorite writer for years and years was Anais Nin, whose prose work is also a bit ah… what is the word I’m searching for? Formless, perhaps? I think everyone agrees that it is her vast journal writing that is most fascinating, but still, I own everything. Fills up a whole bookshelf. Perhaps one day I’ll make a page on the site to list some of my favorite books.