Again, I'm posting as I near completion of my current read-for-pleasure read. Janet Frame's The Carpathians is one weird book, but compelling for being so. I'm not entirely sure of what's happening, but I'm enjoying my own confusion. (I had a similar experience with John Crowley's Little, Big.)
The last time I read anything by Janet Frame must have been the 1994/1995 school year. I was in a class at Dalhousie U called Commonweath Literature. It's a sign of the times; courses with the same books on the syllabus would now be called Post-Colonial Literature. Anyway, in that class I read The Edge of the Alphabet, which I remember enjoying but cannot remember anything about.
Okay, I don't know why that's relevant.
I found this copy of The Carpathians in the English Department lounge at Queen's. People fairly often abandon unwanted books there to adopted by others, and so after letting this one sit there for over a week, I finally rescued it. And I'm glad I did. It's not the best book I've ever read, and I'll probably forget it in a few months, but I'm enjoying it now....