The Bourne Identity.
So, K starts off the year with a “novel that will make you feel.” And I start off with a novel more along the lines of “FEELINGS ARE FOR JERKS.” Nice balance we have going there.
I’ve been reading a lot of “spy thrillers” in the past few months – mostly at work because they’re easy to pick up while the kiddo watches Elmo or colors or something quiet and easy to put down when, in five minutes, the quiet inevitably ends. I really, really love the Bourne movies, so now I’m reading the Bourne books (by Robert Ludlum) – which, it should be noted, are completely and totally unlike the movies in every way. Part of it is that the books were written some 20 years before the movies were made, so plots were changed for contemporary accuracy, and part of it is that the movies wanted to be a bit sexier. For example, in the books Marie is a Canadian economist, not a German gypsy-esque 20something. You’d be hard pressed to find a sexy economist in Hollywood.
The books are really smart and really, really fast. It’s hard to keep up with who is kicking whom in the head with what sometimes. Still, under the spies and the head-kicking and the traps and the cons, it’s all about a question of identity.
“[The] pattern’s been established. There’s growth, the pain of recognition and the excitement of discovery. Does that tell you something?”
Marie looked into Panov’s dark, weary eyes; there was a light in them. “All of us,” she said.
“That’s right. In a way, he’s a functioning microcosm of us all. I mean, we’re all trying to find out who the hell we are, aren’t we?”