Am I a compulsive joiner? I don’t know. I don’t think so. Nevertheless. I just joined another internet interaction group and I have no idea what this says about me. www.shelfari.com/madandcrazy that’s where I’m for the moment. You can go there too if you want to know what I’m currently reading or think is worth reading. I have no idea why I should even begin to think you would give a hoot about what I’m currently reading but there you go! Perhaps it’s this mood I refuse to acknowledge currently permeating all my life that makes me think this way? I would rather not think too much about it!
Dennis Matanda introduced me to www.shelfari.com, great site! You could go there too if you want. I don’t know how am going to sound with this but since I have been in Kampala the last week, gorging myself on cheaply bought books on that pavement opposite Radio One in my lunchtime hour, I thought I might as well tell you which book am currently reading, halfway through it in fact. I’m reading My Life as A Fake by Peter Carey.
For the longest time I held off reading Peter Carey until this week when in Kampala, I bought me a copy of My Life as a Fake at a pavement stall. I now know why I secretly dreaded opening a Carey book. A few pages into My Life as a Fake, an absorbing disturbing novel about literary hoaxes and lives, a mounting fear is gripping me.
Carey has made me care for characters in a novel like I have not cared since I was a child reading Penguin classics from Robert Louis Stevenson to F. Scott Fitzgerald and I will remember reading Charles Dickens David Copperfield all my life. I had not cared for characters in a novel that much until I begun reading Carey’s My Life as a Fake in a minibus taxi on my way to work from Entebbe this morning.
I’m so afraid for Sarah Elizabeth Jane, the narrator of this novel, trapped between two old men and their memories and they seem bent to exploit her in some sort of twisted revenge bid. I don’t know if John Slater, pompous man of letters with miniscule talent is her protector or her ultimate betrayer like she thinks he led her mother to commit suicide and drove her father to drink and a death less than what one can talk about in civilized company. But then again it might be that the real danger to her sanity and what’s left of her innocence maybe destroyed by the strange relic from another poetic age called Chubb in a Kuala Lumpur side street, a white man living like a native with blisters and a strange disturbing sanctity.
I’m most disturbed though that I may find out I too have been deceived by Jane who I already care for more than this tale of smoke and mirrors warns me I should not be. I want to stop reading now but I know I will not!