I'm currently reading The Creators from Daniel Boorstin -- it's a history of the Western arts (including architecture and the construction of religious mythology); very interesting. On deck is the same author's The Discoverers, the history of scientific advance. I'd read it about 15 years ago. Boorstin's a good writer who sometimes gets a little purple; but he paints some of the richest nonfiction scenes I've ever read, and he packs much meaning into his sentences.
Recently finished My Life in New Orleans, from Louis Armstrong, which was an incredibly annoying read to this writer: scattered thoughts splattered across the pages, for the most part. While the flavor of New Orleans comes through in his memoirs, it's disjointed enough to be positively distracting. He should have hired a ghost-writer. I only finished it because Satchmo, goddamnit.
Recently finished My Life in New Orleans, from Louis Armstrong, which was an incredibly annoying read to this writer: scattered thoughts splattered across the pages, for the most part. While the flavor of New Orleans comes through in his memoirs, it's disjointed enough to be positively distracting. He should have hired a ghost-writer. I only finished it because Satchmo, goddamnit.