New 06.25.05

Some time back, I read Steve Martin's book Shopgirl. I really liked it. It was deeper than it was long. Well, Nancy gave David a copy of Martin's book The Pleasure of My Company, and I borrowed it before he had a chance to read it. (Sorry, David.) Like Shopgirl, this book is intriguing, but not nearly so attractive. It seems to be about self-deception, except that the main character is benignly insane and aware of it. He's also aware on some level of his self-deceptions. But the insanity, like the curbs he cannot step across, kept me from really thinking about my own self-deceptions as I read this. After all, I'm not insane. Am I? So I can write off his self-deceptions as evidence of his illness and not anything like the little bits of self-deception that keep me going. Can't I? Then there's the problem of the flow of the book. The first part of the book is a minutely detailed description of events, thoughts, and neuroses. The second part is a more flowing narrative of recovery. Then, as though he got tired of writing this book, Martin finishes the 163-page book in a five-page happily-ever-after denouement. Books can't end that way. Can they? I liked reading The Pleasure of My Company, but maybe because I haven't read much lately besides political science (and much of that in textbooks). So, I don't know if I can recommend it. Martin does have a nifty way with phrases, descriptions, and lightly-drawn characters. I was just getting to like the book when it unexpectedly ended. Since I was holding the book and looking at the pages to the right of where I was reading, you'd think I would have known. Don't you?