That book was nuts. It was about the fastest 1,000 pages I've ever read. I was going to bed early to read it. I was reading it walking down the sidewalk from the bus. Sometimes I was reading it in the morning instead of the news.
So now I'm reading a non-fiction book about rogue waves. It's your basic man vs. nature yarn, but instead of being about mountains or avalanches or storms or forest fires, it's about 100-foot waves. The scientists who study them, the daredevils who surf them and the ships that founder in them.
And it's decent. Good enough. But not the same. It's a rare non-fiction book that pulls me in these days quite like fiction does. It turns out plot and character are pretty important things. Who knew?
I'll never understand people who say they don't read fiction. WTF is that about? So they disregard Shakespeare and the Brontes and Hemingway and Updike and Wolfe? All for what? Who Moved My Cheese? Weird.
So I'm racing through the surfing book so I can get to Jonathan Franzen's new novel, which I think (and hope) I'm going to really love.