My days are, in fact, anagrams.

Somewhere between the sunrise, the lamp, the towel, and the laptop, it's warmer than usual right now, so I'm going to turn in early. Instead of using this unengaging documentary, I could fetch iPod or alternate dvds from the other room to use as background noise, but surely it would tempt me into bed, with it's cool fan, white noise, and inviting husband.

Didn't I say I was going to turn in early? So I guess it's alright if I'm tempted in, although the logic seems a bit broken.

Or maybe this is all a ruse and I'm going to spend some time reading before folding myself into cool sheets and slumber.

Today I finished Lorrie Moore's Anagrams, but before I made the final 60 page dash, I wrote a somewhat-reflection:

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Many months, perhaps a year, ago Liz at the The Park Bench recommended author Lorrie Moore. I recognized her name on the spine of Anagrams at a thrift store and promptly purchased it.

Suffice to say, other than the fact that it was recommended by a source I trust, I knew nothing about Anagrams when I cracked the cover. All of the details from the "Lost Classics" review had been lost in the dusty stacks of my brain. Some of them returned to light, called by name as I took in the book they were allusions to. But those memories stood in the background, dim, as I was dazzled by Ms. Moore's prose and became deeply involved in my own reactions.

The book, in all its ways, is a study and celebration of language. The plot doesn't inspire me much, but maybe when I'm at the end I'll pull back and see it as a cohesive statement, rather than an exploration of themes and form.

Each paragraph, each passage, feels like a complete and wholly realized entity in itself, like a single, beautifully rendered grapheme. Many times I want to copy out an excerpt and share it with someone to marvel at the craft of the words, of the single still moment or thought captured in text. In that way, it also reminds me of a comic book, each paragraph a frozen and distinct image, a single illustration. Each on it's own has meaning, and larger meaning reveals itself as you string together a series of them, but the movement takes place in the gaps, between the blocks of words.

If the book was over right here on page 141 (of 220), I'd encourage others to read Anagrams, but not as a novel. The shine isn't in the plot, or in the characters, but in the metaphor and theme. Read it as a thought experiment, read it as philosophical peek into someone else's internal dialog. Read it for the moments of wit that you wish you had.

In the morning Darrel fumbles with his clothes. I lie in bed watching him. A sock falls from his shoulder. He turns his shirt right side in and underwear drops o the floor. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Magic tricks," he says.

Though I am sorely tempted to go back right now to the review that initially inspired me to read this book, to compare notes, I am resisting. I don't want my embryonic opinions influenced by those that have come to full term. Yes, I deem them good enough to share with strangers, but not to send on a play date with someone who, you know, actually knows something.

I need an editor.

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After the fact, my feelings haven't changed much. I'm still much more impressed by the wordcraft than the story. The story primarily takes place inside the main character, inside the main character, not around her. Perhaps I'm too young to enjoy it properly, perhaps I'm too happy.

The books I like best are those that tempt me into the skin of the characters, where my empathy and my willingness to engage and participate animates those characters, propelling them--and me--through the story. In this I was pulled along by a metaphorical trail of breadcrumbs of metaphors and puns, the characters just happened to be along, too.

I still need an editor.