Mmm books.

I generally prefer to read books before seeing the movie, but I don't think I made a mistake in seeing the movie first on this one.  The film was pretty much an exact replication of the book, which I enjoyed.  I love and recommend both; I even got Amsterdam, another book by Ian McEwan (geez, I always want to say Ian McKellan), though I haven't started it yet.
Another instance of (finally) getting to the book after the movie.  I love the movie, and between my own enjoyment of it and an ex-boyfriend's obsession with it, I've probably seen it a bajillion times (I'm not complaining).  But the book... meh.  There's something lacking.  This is the second Chuck Palahniuk book I've read (Lullaby being the first), but I cannot get into it and haven't touched it in several weeks.  All those lines that I loved hearing Edward Norton say in the movie just don't have the same impact when read silently; in fact, they annoy me.  Maybe I've just seen the movie too many times.

I picked this up from the library after Fight Club was proving a disappointment and after seeing Jen talk about it.  I had no trouble getting through this one.  Well--let me rephrase.  I had no trouble with the writing and enjoyed the story, but there's some pretty graphic, very depressing stuff in there.  I was quite addicted to it, though, and found myself doing that creepy, possibly-early-sign-of-some-form-of-mental-illness thing of thinking/narrating in the style of whomever I'm reading.  I'm too lazy to explain.  I recommend it, but... I'm not sure how I feel about two events from the last few chapters.  I won't go into it, and they certainly didn't ruin anything for me, but I just finished it tonight and I'm still contemplating how well they worked.
This is actually the "textbook" for my music analysis class, the topic of which this semester is Beethoven's string quartets.  (What an awkward sentence that was...)  The interesting (or uninteresting, depending on your point of view I suppose) thing about this biography is that it's not your typical story-like, anecdotal biography.  Instead, it relies on primary sources and contemporary information to present the composer for what he was:  a working musician.  Although it doesn't argue his genius, there's a lot less hero-worship and a lot more explanation of some of the less favorable aspects of Beethoven's character (including his brilliant but no-so-honorable dealings with publishers).  A very interesting read for the musical übernerd such as myself, but not a biography I'd suggest for a first Beethoven biography.
Am I a huge nerd?  Yes, obviously.  I have a strange love for children's literature, and when I'm in the young people's section at our library I usually can't help but flip through one or two.  Often it's something short, intended for young children, and full of pictures that secretly make me giddy, like Hondo and Fabian or Marshmallow (I heart charcoal, btw).  Today I noticed the original Bambi, however, and took an interest.  Why not read the book that inspired both my mother's name and a beautiful Disney film, I thought?  And so this is what I'm currently diving into.

And just to take my nerddom to the top, here's the chapter I just read, which I found interesting and touching (geez, people, don't let me read children's literature when I'm tired and emotional).  Pardon the lengthiness, but Vox has yet to come up with it's equivalent of the LJ-cut, as far as I know.  From Bambi, by Felix Salten, Chapter VIII:

The leaves were falling from the great oak at the meadow's edge.  They were falling from all the trees.
One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow.  Two leaves clung to its very tip.
"It isn't the way it used to be," said one leaf to the other.
"No," the other leaf answered.  "So many of us have fallen off to-night we're almost the only ones left on our branch."
"You never know who's going to go next," said the first leaf.  "Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes, and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young.  You never know who's going to go next."
"The sun seldom shines now," sighed the second leaf, "and when it does it gives no warmth.  We must have warmth again."
"Can it be true," said the first leaf, "can it really be true, that others come to take our places when we're gone and after them still others, and more and more?"
"It is really true," whispered the second leaf.  "We can't even begin to imagine it, it's beyond our powers."
"It makes me very sad," added the first leaf.
They were silent a while.  Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, "Why must we fall?..."
The second leaf asked, "What happens to us when we have fallen?"
"We sink down..."
"What is under us?"
The first leaf answered, "I don't know, some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows."
The second leaf asked, "Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we're down there?"
The first leaf answered, "Who knows?  Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it."
They were silent again.  Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, "Don't worry so much about it, you're trembling."
"That's nothing," the second leaf answered, "I tremble at the least thing now.  I don't feel so sure of my hold as I used to."
"Let's not talk any more about such things," said the first leaf.
The other replied, "No, we'll let be.  But--what else shall we talk about?"  She was silent, but went on after a little while, "Which of us will go first?"
"There's still plenty of time to worry about that," the other leaf assured her.  "Let's remember how beautiful it was, how wonderful, when the sun came out and shone so warmly that we thought we'd burst with life.  Do you remember?  And the morning dew, and the mild and splendid nights..."
"Now the nights are dreadful," the second leaf complained, "and there is no end to them."
"We shouldn't complain," said the first leaf gently.  "We've outlived many, many others."
"Have I changed much?" asked the second leaf shyly but determinedly.
"Not in the least," the first leaf assured her.  "You only think so because I've got to be so yellow and ugly.  But it's different in your case."
"You're fooling me," the second leaf said.
"No, really," the first leaf exclaimed eagerly, "believe me, you're as lovely as the day you were born.  Here and there may be a little yellow spot but it's hardly noticeable and only makes you handsomer, believe me."
"Thanks," whispered the second leaf, quite touched.  "I don't believe you, not altogether, but I thank you because you're so kind, you've always been so kind to me.  I'm just beginning to understand how kind you are."
"Hush," said the other leaf, and kept silent herself for she was too troubled to talk any more.
Then they were both silent.  Hours passed.
A moist wind blew, cold and hostile, through the tree-tops.
"Ah, now," said the second leaf, "I..."  Then her voice broke off.  She was torn from her place and spun down.
Winter had come.

Between Bambi and Toy Story, people sure are finding ways to make me children feel great pity for things that lack consciousnesses.