My most recent finished book was the 1970s horror novel If You Could See Me Now, by Peter Straub; I'd been meaning to read more by him (so far I've read one of his books, plus his two novels co-written with Stephen King, The Talisman and Black House). Sad and difficult story, about a narrating character you don't completely like having to deal with the consequences, 20 years on, of a death that he knows — no, he thinks — he didn't cause. He deals with this in the town where the death happened, the death of a girl who like him had been a young teen at the time. People of the town think he did cause her death, they just can't prove it. (Turns out their interest in her death is not matched by much compassion about her death. The main character, his issues aside, seems to be the main one who has that compassion.) Events escalate, sadly and horrificly. I ended the book appreciating it but thinking maybe, due to mood, I shouldn't have been reading a horror novel.

I'm now working on two books. One is Terry Gilliam's memoir Gilliamesque, which I mentioned yesterday. The other is Moonraker, Ian Fleming's third Janes Bond novel. Don't hold the terrible 1979 film of the same name (and almost nothing else in common) against it; I've heard good things about the novel. I still find it weird to remind myself that the book is from 1955, about a proto-ICBM (the "Moonraker" of the title), before we'd gotten anything above the atmosphere. No one would do that for another two years. No orbital/space station shenanigans in this book, the way there are in that film.

This is my second go at Ian Fleming. In 1997 I read the first Bond novel, 1953's Casino Royale, followed by the fifth, sixth, and seventh books: From Russia With Love, Dr. No, and Goldfinger. Nineteen years ago, I think I saw why people such as JFK enjoyed and enjoy the series, but felt This isn't really for me. Took me until now to decide to give it another try. I'll see how I respond to novel-Bond now.