Real Lit

Consider this minor redemption; I may read Crack-lit, but I also read Lit-lit (if there can be net-net, there can be lit-lit).

In addition to my foray into fervent teen-aged vampire romance, I also recently read Bel Canto, by Ann Patchett, a book I read both as fast as I could and as slowly--wanting as I did to know more, more, more about the characters and the story and also dreading turning the last page to see no more words, to find no more revelations.

Improbably peopled with characters from around the world, Bel Canto somehow weaves a mesmerizing and believable tale of discovery and romance, growth and friendship, and of course, life and death. Kidnappers and hostages, opera singers and tycoons, politicians and villagers -- all tossed together like a mixed salad. And once you toss a salad, you can't untoss it.

Patchett has a way with words that shapes each of her characters particularly; her language shifts to suit them. Sharp and clear or lyrical and a bit blurry, her phrasing offers as much insight into her characters as a singer's phrasing does into a song.

Of course, me being me, as I was reading the book, I couldn't help but notice that it's tailor-made to be adapted into a movie (other than the limited scope of the location), and lo and behold, it appears as though the team behind Capote (RT:91), which garnered Phillip Seymour Hoffman his Best Actor Oscar, is preparing to make the movie. Finally. The book was published in 2001.