Geirof let out a wild Viking battle cry before burying his face in Ingrid’s massive breasts.
- from The Last Viking by Sandra Hill
Not a book I’ve read, regrettably. All I can say for myself is that I get into all sorts of mischief wandering the book aisles.
But then, if I wanted to get my jollies reading about the vigorous carousing that our darling boy Geirof does, so what? Besides, I can tell you for a fact he is innocent: Ingrid is the wooden figurehead on the prow of his ship – that is sinking. So SHAME on you all. The finely chiseled Viking boy is floundering, and your heads are all full of smut.
Whatever floats your boat, say I. There should be Viking books enough to give to every man, child, woman in the world. Let Geirof be your ambassador. Your Ambassador. To Love.
(I know I’m ridiculous. Love me.)
Anyway – I have no Viking literature by my bedside. I am stagnant and unimaginative tonight, and you know what that means: a LIST! :)
Books Giang DOES Have On Her Bedside Table (Or Thereabouts)
1. The Virgin In The Ice by Ellis Peters. The Sixth Brother Cadfael mystery. Cadfael’s a 12th century Welsh monk/herbalist/ex-crusader who moonlights as a mystery-solver type person. This one involves two missing kids, a nun, and a snowstorm.
2. The Flood by William C. Dietz. The second in a suite of three books about the video game Halo. In a nutshell: genetically augmented super-soldier lands on strange alien world called Halo (because, it is shaped like a halo) to shoot things to bits and save the human race from…oh, so many things. I love me some Master Chief.
3. Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. Atwood writing a novel about a notorious Canadian murdress. Which means, none of us insulated Americans has ever heard about her. Grace Marks, anyone? No. Didn’t think so. She’s making it up.
4. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith. The first book in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, about Precious Ramotswe, a lady detective. It is set in Botswana. I love me some Botswana. It reads extremely well. What is it about books set in Africa? They’re all Cry, The Beloved Country, and we just eat it up.
5. The Gunslinger by Stephen King. I have been reading this book for a year now. It is 300 pages long, with print the size of my fist, and I can’t get through it. For me, Stephen King’s books are work. I like him fine – but he creates these strange little worlds, and I have to shift a lot to get my mind around them.
6. The Plague by Albert Camus. Gah. French surnames and dead rats, all. My brain hurts. On to lesser things.
7. One Hundred Years Of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The Everlasting Gobstopper of novels. Will I ever finish it? This last attempt got me through page 251 of 470. They just got trains.
8. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I started it at Heathrow, and got home and watched the movie. The book is still better – but you don’t get Colin Firth in the book.
9. Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy. Some books exude feelings. This one makes me feel like I’m a freshman doing summer reading. Something about the way the words look. That’s me being sentimental about reading depressing books for school. Awww. Anyone ever read a happy book in school? No. Awww.
And that’s it. For now. There are more. My room is a-clutter with them. And off I go into the arms of one, now. Happy trails.