favorite writer

In random order:
1. Sophie Kinsella

Sejak membaca Confessions of A Shopaholic, saya langsung jatuh cinta pada novel-novel karangan nyonya yang satu ini. Ketika buku tersebut difilmkan, saya sempat waswas, apakah sang sutradara mampu memindahkan kegokilan Rebecca dan kegantengan Luke ke layar lebar? Untunglah, justru karena ceritanya tidak dibuat sesuai novelnya, saya merasa lebih puas menontonnya. Malah kini si pemeran Luke, Hugh Dancy, sukses masuk di daftar cowok-cowok favorit saya di film 🙂

2. Sidney Sheldon

Sejak saya bisa membaca dan ayah saya membolehkan saya membeli novel yang lebih mature, buku-buku karangan bapak yang sayangnya sudah wafat ini rajin saya koleksi. Cerita-ceritanya selalu beralur cepat dan susah ditebak. Ia juga selalu menampilkan setting di berbagai belahan dunia, membuat saya ngiler untuk mengalaminya sendiri.

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beat the reaper

I also love love this book written by Josh Bazell. It’s his debut novel, but you can already tell he’s a gifted writer. What do you expect from someone with a writing degree from Brown University and a medical degree from Columbia University?

For those of you who didn’t get the chance to read it, here’s the opening part of this hilarious and entertaining novel. By the way, there’s a big chance you can enjoy it at the theatre also because last time I heard they’re going to turn it into a movie with Leonardo DiCaprio as the leading actor. Yippie!

Anyway, here’s the story:

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brokeback mountain

I love love this story. Annie Proulx indeed has the gift of writing in modest and simple words but honest and touching indeed.

This is one of the part in the short story that I loved the most:

The closet was a shallow cavity with a wooden rod braced across, a faded cretonne curtain on a string closing it off from the rest of the room. In the closet hung two pairs of jeans crease-ironed and folded neatly over wire hangers, on the floor a pair of worn packer boots he thought he remembered. At the north end of the closet a tiny jog in the wall made a slight hiding place and here, stiff with long suspension from a nail, hung a shirt. He lifted it off the nail. Jack’s old shirt from Brokeback days. The dried blood on the sleeve was his own blood, a gushing nosebleed on the last afternoon on the mountain when Jack, in their contortionistic grappling and wrestling, had slammed Ennis’s nose hard with his knee. He had staunched the blood which was everywhere, all over both of them, with his shirtsleeve, but the staunching hadn’t held because Ennis had suddenly swung from the deck and laid the ministering angel out in the wild columbine, wings folded.

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