I finally read The Virgin Suicides last week. I couldn’t put the thing down and then, when I was finished, I felt terrible. Just awful. Full of despair. Because there is no way in hell I will ever write anything even half that good. I was surprised by how it good it was — I’d stayed away from the book for so long because I happened to see the movie first. That’s a terrible, no-good, very bad thing to do. Don’t ever do that.
It’s an odd book, actually — it feels strangely plotless for such a dramatic story — but oh, it’s beautifully mesmerizing and moody.
I’m going to stay as far away as possible from Middlesex for at least ten years.
Here’s an article Eugenides published last fall — it’s about the weird things that happened to him while he was working on Middlesex:
I should stress that I don’t know what to think about the omens that appeared to me while I was writing Middlesex. I don’t know whether to believe in them or not. It might be a case of coincidence, or the more fashionable “synchronicity”, or the still more fashionable “morphic resonance”. I can only describe what happened and let you be the judge.