Junk Mail and Disappointing Books

A little rant here about junk mail. I spend about 90 minutes a week going through the various solicitations that are sent to my hubby and me. Because we donate to a number of animal groups, we receive an average of 5 requests a week from groups dealing with abused pigs, mistreated donkeys, starving horses and the like. I try to avoid looking at the pictures as I sort through them. CARE, an apparently excellent group dealing with humans in wretched circumstances, asks us for money at least once a month. We made a donation to the group once following the tsunami in Indonesia. We answered "no" when they sent a letter asking if we'd like them to contact us in the future.

I go through the junk mail ripping off and shredding information about our names and address. The most time consuming of my junk mail task is cutting by hand the numerous address labels that I am sent. I can't use the shredder or they will muck up my machine. I remember when I used to pay for labels. I'd gladly do so again if that would keep away the ones that are sent to me with donation requests.

My desk is finally clear of piled up mail and financial non-junk, some going back all the way to August. I may yet be able to get on with updating the photo albums. The last time I did this was in 2002.

Today, I'm experiencing sharp pains in my back.
I don't know what's up with that. Mostly I'll be reading today. I'll probably finish Isabel Allende's Ines of My Heart, a novel taking place in the early 16th century and dealing with the Spanish conquest of Peru and Chile. With the first book that I read by her, Daughter of Fortune, Allende had become one of my laundry list authors, a writer that I'd enjoyed so much that I would read anything she wrote including her laundry list (once). With Ines of My Heart, I have stripped her of that honor. For the depth of character and situation that had marked the first book, Allende has substituted sex and violence. I feel somewhat like a voyeur and I don't like the experience.

With regard to a book I'd mentioned in my December 31st post, Snow by Orhan Pamuk, it was a challenge to finish it. This is a Nobel Prize winner and well recommended by a variety of sources including Margaret Atwood who is firmly anchored in her laundry list status but has lost credibility for me as a recommender of books. Snow is extremely well written at the sentence and paragraph level, but doesn't come together as a coherent story. It tells the tale of a "by accident" coup that begins with a theatrical event. The "actors" start shooting at the audience, killing some of those in attendance. Later we learn that the leader of the coup didn't really want to lead it, but felt that he had to following some braggadocios remarks that he'd made earlier. The behavior of the characters make no sense within the context of either the story or the real world. My advice: Do not waste your time on this book.

Enough for now.