Rabbits and Slumdogs

A few months ago I heard Danny Boyle on NPR discussing his new film, which I really wanted to see. Since then, it won a number of Golden Globes and now crackles with a made-to-order credibility that I find annoying, if only because I didn't see it beforehand. By the same logic I felt weird reading Rabbit, Run in tandem with my wife this past weekend. The only public space where I was ever reading was the Y but still my actions offered the appearance of being forced. We both enjoyed the novel. Its plot would've collapsed into melodrama with a weaker writer at the helm.

She is now reading Bellow's The Victim. I had hoped to as well, but the library doesn't have a copy. I may pick another early Bellow, Naipaul's Bend In The River or something more obscure. I am sort of saving War and Peace for next week when I'm on holiday.