nirinia: (Default)
You know you're on holiday when you set your phone to silent, put away your book, brew tea and find a shaded chair, to play Rat on a Scooter. I had to beat my brother's high score (on my phone! It's like the old days, when someone beat your highscore on snake and you had to beat them or commit social suicide). Killed him, 146 points to his 106.

I'm sorry, I know I'm using LJ like twitter. I can't help it, I let my brain run off on annual leave and I'm not doing anything except being on holiday (at home), and seeing friends. And I clean, for some reason. Had my first wild strawberries today, they taste and smell like distilled summer. They're also called European strawberries, 'smultron' in Swedish, alpine strawberries (as a philologist I maintain that it is vital to know synonyms for certain very important things).

I plan to go back to reading Anna Karenina, but am taking a break with The Scarpetta Factor and was surprised by how sophisticated some of Cornwell's writing is.


Sarah McCoy wrote at The Millions about leaving bookmarks and mementos in her books, here, Between the Pages. I can never make myself do it consciously, leaving something in a book, marring it. It compares to cracking spines and leaving dog-ears. But it does happen occasionally. People keep gifting me bookmarks, because I never seem to find them when I need to. And I keep not using them. So I grab notes, postcards and my glasses when I think I'm returning shortly. Some of them stay in the book when I finish it and forget to remove them (I tuck them in somewhere when I read, to not lose them), but never consciously. That would be cheating.

Do you leave mementoes in your books? Notes?
nirinia: (Default)
You know you're on holiday when you set your phone to silent, put away your book, brew tea and find a shaded chair, to play Rat on a Scooter. I had to beat my brother's high score (on my phone! It's like the old days, when someone beat your highscore on snake and you had to beat them or commit social suicide). Killed him, 146 points to his 106.

I'm sorry, I know I'm using LJ like twitter. I can't help it, I let my brain run off on annual leave and I'm not doing anything except being on holiday (at home), and seeing friends. And I clean, for some reason. Had my first wild strawberries today, they taste and smell like distilled summer. They're also called European strawberries, 'smultron' in Swedish, alpine strawberries (as a philologist I maintain that it is vital to know synonyms for certain very important things).

I plan to go back to reading Anna Karenina, but am taking a break with The Scarpetta Factor and was surprised by how sophisticated some of Cornwell's writing is.


Sarah McCoy wrote at The Millions about leaving bookmarks and mementos in her books, here, Between the Pages. I can never make myself do it consciously, leaving something in a book, marring it. It compares to cracking spines and leaving dog-ears. But it does happen occasionally. People keep gifting me bookmarks, because I never seem to find them when I need to. And I keep not using them. So I grab notes, postcards and my glasses when I think I'm returning shortly. Some of them stay in the book when I finish it and forget to remove them (I tuck them in somewhere when I read, to not lose them), but never consciously. That would be cheating.

Do you leave mementoes in your books? Notes?
nirinia: (Default)
Comparing the postcolonial projects of Coetzee and Gordimer would be a dream come true. Why am I stuck as an undergraduate with nothing fun to research for the next two years?

Going out tonight, and I'm giggly, giddy and delighted about it. Going to spend hours and hours on hair and make-up, just because I can. And I'll pick through my closet, drawers and shoe-towers for something stunning to wear. Don't think it's a good idea to wear my Cosmos when I'm drinking.

It is beginning to dawn on me why Nabokov had to specify what readers he wrote for. You don't read to relate to, or like the characters in a novel. And why he lamented the loss of his childhood Russia, and with it Russian. The sheer multitude of words in that language! They have a specific verb for 'going back and forth'.

I'm also terribly envious of Neil Gaiman's library. Come to think of it, if I continue accumulating books at this rate, I'll probably have one of approximate caliber in 20 years or so.
nirinia: (Default)
Comparing the postcolonial projects of Coetzee and Gordimer would be a dream come true. Why am I stuck as an undergraduate with nothing fun to research for the next two years?

Going out tonight, and I'm giggly, giddy and delighted about it. Going to spend hours and hours on hair and make-up, just because I can. And I'll pick through my closet, drawers and shoe-towers for something stunning to wear. Don't think it's a good idea to wear my Cosmos when I'm drinking.

It is beginning to dawn on me why Nabokov had to specify what readers he wrote for. You don't read to relate to, or like the characters in a novel. And why he lamented the loss of his childhood Russia, and with it Russian. The sheer multitude of words in that language! They have a specific verb for 'going back and forth'.

I'm also terribly envious of Neil Gaiman's library. Come to think of it, if I continue accumulating books at this rate, I'll probably have one of approximate caliber in 20 years or so.
nirinia: (Default)
A cardboard box, containing ten books was just delivered to me. I love Amazon!

5 Woolf books: The Waves, Jacob's Room, A Room of One's Own, The Years and Between the Acts; two Stein, Tender Buttons (modernist experimentation at its best, I'm told) and The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas; Morrison's Beloved, and two books on Narrative Theory Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, Dictionary of Narratology: Revised Edition
nirinia: (Default)
A cardboard box, containing ten books was just delivered to me. I love Amazon!

5 Woolf books: The Waves, Jacob's Room, A Room of One's Own, The Years and Between the Acts; two Stein, Tender Buttons (modernist experimentation at its best, I'm told) and The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas; Morrison's Beloved, and two books on Narrative Theory Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, Dictionary of Narratology: Revised Edition
nirinia: (Default)
I've finished Englenes Spill (The Angel's Game, I think, is the English title), the perquel to The Shadow of the Wind. The dust jacket informed me that this is to be the second of four novels, and the book had an intermittent feel to it.

It's set a generation before the first novel, involving the parents of The Shadow of the Wind's protagonist. Zafon's strongest point is his description, he is good at evoking appropriate scenery. The downside is that, it, too is terribly cliché: he has obviously read the masters, and copies them down to the comma. I've seen all these images before. His supporting characters turn out to be better thought-out than Martìn. They have emotions, and they react. How Zafon sees it fit to let his main character react to everything but killing is beyond me – a proper lack of a reaction, even, would be better. He seems to have forgotten about it entirely.

The plot is not particularly exciting, but I could've seen past that. Again I find the execution lacking. Had he just taken everything a little further, I could have argued so many fun points. Zafon could have led us completely astray when we question "the boss's" existence, but does so only half-heartedly.

The book is, in short, half-hearted and reads very much like Zafon is trying to set the stage for his next book. I am convinced that Martìn is in fact Carax. Like the other bestsellers I've read lately, it's not bad, but neither is it sublime. As is usually the nature of bestsellers. They aren't written to be fantastic.
nirinia: (Default)
I've finished Englenes Spill (The Angel's Game, I think, is the English title), the perquel to The Shadow of the Wind. The dust jacket informed me that this is to be the second of four novels, and the book had an intermittent feel to it.

It's set a generation before the first novel, involving the parents of The Shadow of the Wind's protagonist. Zafon's strongest point is his description, he is good at evoking appropriate scenery. The downside is that, it, too is terribly cliché: he has obviously read the masters, and copies them down to the comma. I've seen all these images before. His supporting characters turn out to be better thought-out than Martìn. They have emotions, and they react. How Zafon sees it fit to let his main character react to everything but killing is beyond me – a proper lack of a reaction, even, would be better. He seems to have forgotten about it entirely.

The plot is not particularly exciting, but I could've seen past that. Again I find the execution lacking. Had he just taken everything a little further, I could have argued so many fun points. Zafon could have led us completely astray when we question "the boss's" existence, but does so only half-heartedly.

The book is, in short, half-hearted and reads very much like Zafon is trying to set the stage for his next book. I am convinced that Martìn is in fact Carax. Like the other bestsellers I've read lately, it's not bad, but neither is it sublime. As is usually the nature of bestsellers. They aren't written to be fantastic.
nirinia: (Default)
I finished Faulks' Human Traces, some time ago. And I think I've written that it was a brick before? Well, it took sheer strength of will to stick with it through the insane digressions and long lectures, but in the heart-breaking beauty of the end. As Daniel dies in the mountains, Sonia knows her husband has been unfaithful, Thomas suffers from alzheimers and is as lost as his patients was, and both he and Jacques feel that they have achieved nothing, it was all worth it. Not because I revel in their misery, but because it was all so very human. This reviewer says it all better than me, really. I'm too feverish with spring and time off to make a particularly note-worthy writer.

I think I read something in-between as well, but I can't remember what, so I'll just move on to Venus as a Boy, by Sutherland. Very easily read, reminiscient of stream-of-consciousness, but not quite it. Short, to the point, and intriguing. And from London. It was haunting, I still think of those last lines. Cupid's (protagonist) final realisation still twirls about in my head. It was played as a monologue, it seems, at the National Theatre of Scotland. I wish I could have seen it, it must have made a tremendously powerful play.

Oh, I must have finished Jane Eyre some time ago, too. And now I am reading Wide Sargasso Sea, which is Rhys imagining the life of Rochester's wife, before she burnt down Thornfield.



On a non-literary note, I had my hair done today. Picture here. My hair-stylist decided she wanted to make it messy, and I think I'll have to admit that it is very cute.
nirinia: (Default)
I finished Faulks' Human Traces, some time ago. And I think I've written that it was a brick before? Well, it took sheer strength of will to stick with it through the insane digressions and long lectures, but in the heart-breaking beauty of the end. As Daniel dies in the mountains, Sonia knows her husband has been unfaithful, Thomas suffers from alzheimers and is as lost as his patients was, and both he and Jacques feel that they have achieved nothing, it was all worth it. Not because I revel in their misery, but because it was all so very human. This reviewer says it all better than me, really. I'm too feverish with spring and time off to make a particularly note-worthy writer.

I think I read something in-between as well, but I can't remember what, so I'll just move on to Venus as a Boy, by Sutherland. Very easily read, reminiscient of stream-of-consciousness, but not quite it. Short, to the point, and intriguing. And from London. It was haunting, I still think of those last lines. Cupid's (protagonist) final realisation still twirls about in my head. It was played as a monologue, it seems, at the National Theatre of Scotland. I wish I could have seen it, it must have made a tremendously powerful play.

Oh, I must have finished Jane Eyre some time ago, too. And now I am reading Wide Sargasso Sea, which is Rhys imagining the life of Rochester's wife, before she burnt down Thornfield.



On a non-literary note, I had my hair done today. Picture here. My hair-stylist decided she wanted to make it messy, and I think I'll have to admit that it is very cute.
nirinia: (Default)
I'm trying to find out what I should read, what I have (and where) and what I need to buy. So, I figured a list is convenient. So, in no particular order, books that I either must read, would like to read or feel I should read:

Victorian London, by Picard. I'm not reading it as much as leafing through. What posessed me to buy it, I wonder.
Sourcery, Maskerade, Reaper Man, all by Pratchett.
Heart of Darkness, by Conrad
Mary, by Nabokov
Dubilners and Ulysses, by Joyce
Julius Caesar and Twelfth Night, by Shakespeare. I'm buggered with Caesar, had it just been politics I had survived, but politics and Shakespeare ...
The Birthday Party, by Pinter.
Jane Eyre, Brontë
Mrs Dalloway, Woolf
Wide Sargasso Sea, Rhys
David Copperfield, Dickens. For when another temporary bout on insanity strikes me.
The Inner Life of Martin Frost, Auster
African Stories, Lessing
The Heart of the Matter, Greene
Lectures on Literature, Nabokov
Fatherland, Harris
War and Peace, Tolstoy
Jonathan Strange and Mr Norell, Clarke. I promised Dad I would read it and try to make some sense of it this summer, but never did, and he is still wondering what I might make of it. It is huge, and red and miserable.
The Flight from the Enchanter, Murdoch. The Sea, the Sea was anticlimatic, but this one looked interesting.
The Melancholy of Anatomy, Jackson. Very peculiar, by the looks of it. I think I might love it.
Ada or Ardor, Nabokov. Stationed by my bed, unfinished.
To the Lighthouse, Woolf
Før du sov, Ullmann. Should be bolded to showcase the one Norwegian on my list.
Half Life, by Shelley. If The Melancholy ... is any good, I will have to read her next novel, too. Post-modernism intrigues me.
The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath


Perhaps I should take a leaf out of Nærum's book and buy no new books this year, but read the ones I have instead?
nirinia: (Default)
I'm trying to find out what I should read, what I have (and where) and what I need to buy. So, I figured a list is convenient. So, in no particular order, books that I either must read, would like to read or feel I should read:

Victorian London, by Picard. I'm not reading it as much as leafing through. What posessed me to buy it, I wonder.
Sourcery, Maskerade, Reaper Man, all by Pratchett.
Heart of Darkness, by Conrad
Mary, by Nabokov
Dubilners and Ulysses, by Joyce
Julius Caesar and Twelfth Night, by Shakespeare. I'm buggered with Caesar, had it just been politics I had survived, but politics and Shakespeare ...
The Birthday Party, by Pinter.
Jane Eyre, Brontë
Mrs Dalloway, Woolf
Wide Sargasso Sea, Rhys
David Copperfield, Dickens. For when another temporary bout on insanity strikes me.
The Inner Life of Martin Frost, Auster
African Stories, Lessing
The Heart of the Matter, Greene
Lectures on Literature, Nabokov
Fatherland, Harris
War and Peace, Tolstoy
Jonathan Strange and Mr Norell, Clarke. I promised Dad I would read it and try to make some sense of it this summer, but never did, and he is still wondering what I might make of it. It is huge, and red and miserable.
The Flight from the Enchanter, Murdoch. The Sea, the Sea was anticlimatic, but this one looked interesting.
The Melancholy of Anatomy, Jackson. Very peculiar, by the looks of it. I think I might love it.
Ada or Ardor, Nabokov. Stationed by my bed, unfinished.
To the Lighthouse, Woolf
Før du sov, Ullmann. Should be bolded to showcase the one Norwegian on my list.
Half Life, by Shelley. If The Melancholy ... is any good, I will have to read her next novel, too. Post-modernism intrigues me.
The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath


Perhaps I should take a leaf out of Nærum's book and buy no new books this year, but read the ones I have instead?
nirinia: (Default)
I just drowned in a cup of steaming coffee. And in a month or so, I will be drowning in a cup of Starbucks' steaming cappucino. It is always the very first thing I do when I arrive, locate a Starbucks and go be decadent. London calling <3.

Listening to "The Poet and the Pendulum" on the buss to school this morning, I actually wound up crying. I am amusingly easy to touch these days.

------

"How do you choose which books to read?" I happened to read the Writer's block thing on the front-page of LJ, and it was inspiring, so I'll try to write something about it, I think.

How do I choose my books? I choose the ones that ensnare me: Nabokov, for his brilliant openings - "Dolly in slacks [...] but in my arms, she was always Lolita"-; Wilde for his wit; Foer for his absolute insanity; Lessing for her reliance; and Christie for a proper, almost degrading, treat of discustingly Belgian Poirot. (I would very much like to be described in a book, once. I would love to read, and know that that description is me, filtered through the minds of the insane – heads up, Rush and Quills –, or, if you prefer, of those touched with fire.) But how do I discover new books? I peruse them, pick them up or take them down, and then, I open them very carefully, so as not to make any marks. I ignore the quotes and snippets from other authors and reviews, they are never accurate, and instead read the back.

It is all, really, a matter of the hands. If the book fits - and you will know when it fits- there is nothing to do but buy it. There are certain things about a book that really fits: the weight is right, the colours, the smell, the impression and the associations of it. If, on the other, I am recommended a book, I base my deliberation on the recomender. Some, I know, have a knack for discovering good books, other find only the ones that turn out to be trash.
nirinia: (Default)
I just drowned in a cup of steaming coffee. And in a month or so, I will be drowning in a cup of Starbucks' steaming cappucino. It is always the very first thing I do when I arrive, locate a Starbucks and go be decadent. London calling <3.

Listening to "The Poet and the Pendulum" on the buss to school this morning, I actually wound up crying. I am amusingly easy to touch these days.

------

"How do you choose which books to read?" I happened to read the Writer's block thing on the front-page of LJ, and it was inspiring, so I'll try to write something about it, I think.

How do I choose my books? I choose the ones that ensnare me: Nabokov, for his brilliant openings - "Dolly in slacks [...] but in my arms, she was always Lolita"-; Wilde for his wit; Foer for his absolute insanity; Lessing for her reliance; and Christie for a proper, almost degrading, treat of discustingly Belgian Poirot. (I would very much like to be described in a book, once. I would love to read, and know that that description is me, filtered through the minds of the insane – heads up, Rush and Quills –, or, if you prefer, of those touched with fire.) But how do I discover new books? I peruse them, pick them up or take them down, and then, I open them very carefully, so as not to make any marks. I ignore the quotes and snippets from other authors and reviews, they are never accurate, and instead read the back.

It is all, really, a matter of the hands. If the book fits - and you will know when it fits- there is nothing to do but buy it. There are certain things about a book that really fits: the weight is right, the colours, the smell, the impression and the associations of it. If, on the other, I am recommended a book, I base my deliberation on the recomender. Some, I know, have a knack for discovering good books, other find only the ones that turn out to be trash.
nirinia: (Default)
Fog is descending on the world outside my windows, I have tea and social psychology. Roger and Kåre-Bjarne, the two faces depicted on the book's cover, named by me and Kristine, have done an incredible amount of desperate things in my mind over the course of the 150-60 pages I have read. And, when I can work up the courage, I am starting over again, and writing notes. It should, perhaps, worry me that I remember next to nothing of what I have read.

And I continue reading Lessing's The Grandmothers. The two first novels – I hestitate to call them novels, they are so short, but neither are they short stories –, The Grandmothers and Victoria and the Straveneys, were both sublime, but the one I am reading now, The Reason for It is a bit quirky. The entire collection is a social commentary, and while I see the elements in this one, too, I had expected something more from Lessing. I suspect one of her, very idiosyncratic, surprising endings approaching. Or just a revelation of some sort, there have been a few just the last few pages.

I should perhaps say something of why I admire Lessing so much? She is, beyond writing good stories and creating good - not amiable, almost never amiable -, a master of insinuation. There is so much left hanging in the air, always essential to the story, but never said out-right. A bit like Hemmingway, though you are almost forced to analyse some of his works to get at the things he would not say. Lessing trusts the reader; no, she does not trust us, but takes for granted that we are reasonably intelligent, thinking and good readers that will not skip descriptions (credit goes to Nabokov for the image of good readers being the ones that devour a book word by word, dictionary in hand). I like her short stories, in particular. Though they must be read as a whole, in collections. "Romance 1988" bewildered me when read on its own, taken out of its original context of London Observed and placed in Tapestry.

As Gina ([livejournal.com profile] sleepingsun89), I joined Den norske bokklubben and got a gift-certificate, for which I bought several books. Yesterday, I got seven of them. Dickens' Dickens' David Copperfield and A Christmas Carol, Wilde's Collected Works, The Life and Loves of a She-Devil by Fay Weldon, Nabokov's autobiography Speak Memory, Joyce's Dubliners and Auster's The Inner Life of Martin Frost. I shall read Dickens till I can take no more, comfort-read Wilde, devour Nabokov with appropriate vigour and requisite squeels of delight.

Oh, Kristine got 6 on the "extended essay" (or "særemne") we wrote together. There is no denying it now, we are brilliant!

And in the spirit of Christmas and Psychology, god jul! Or Merry Christmas, if you are so inclined.
nirinia: (Default)
Fog is descending on the world outside my windows, I have tea and social psychology. Roger and Kåre-Bjarne, the two faces depicted on the book's cover, named by me and Kristine, have done an incredible amount of desperate things in my mind over the course of the 150-60 pages I have read. And, when I can work up the courage, I am starting over again, and writing notes. It should, perhaps, worry me that I remember next to nothing of what I have read.

And I continue reading Lessing's The Grandmothers. The two first novels – I hestitate to call them novels, they are so short, but neither are they short stories –, The Grandmothers and Victoria and the Straveneys, were both sublime, but the one I am reading now, The Reason for It is a bit quirky. The entire collection is a social commentary, and while I see the elements in this one, too, I had expected something more from Lessing. I suspect one of her, very idiosyncratic, surprising endings approaching. Or just a revelation of some sort, there have been a few just the last few pages.

I should perhaps say something of why I admire Lessing so much? She is, beyond writing good stories and creating good - not amiable, almost never amiable -, a master of insinuation. There is so much left hanging in the air, always essential to the story, but never said out-right. A bit like Hemmingway, though you are almost forced to analyse some of his works to get at the things he would not say. Lessing trusts the reader; no, she does not trust us, but takes for granted that we are reasonably intelligent, thinking and good readers that will not skip descriptions (credit goes to Nabokov for the image of good readers being the ones that devour a book word by word, dictionary in hand). I like her short stories, in particular. Though they must be read as a whole, in collections. "Romance 1988" bewildered me when read on its own, taken out of its original context of London Observed and placed in Tapestry.

As Gina ([livejournal.com profile] sleepingsun89), I joined Den norske bokklubben and got a gift-certificate, for which I bought several books. Yesterday, I got seven of them. Dickens' Dickens' David Copperfield and A Christmas Carol, Wilde's Collected Works, The Life and Loves of a She-Devil by Fay Weldon, Nabokov's autobiography Speak Memory, Joyce's Dubliners and Auster's The Inner Life of Martin Frost. I shall read Dickens till I can take no more, comfort-read Wilde, devour Nabokov with appropriate vigour and requisite squeels of delight.

Oh, Kristine got 6 on the "extended essay" (or "særemne") we wrote together. There is no denying it now, we are brilliant!

And in the spirit of Christmas and Psychology, god jul! Or Merry Christmas, if you are so inclined.
nirinia: (Default)
"Special Topics in Calamity Physics", wtf? Finished by sheer willpower, I do not think I will ever work up the stamina to re-read it. If I ever do publish something, someone please tell me if it's reading like an early, fake (taking a leaf out of "The Lambs of London" (alas, Blue has gotten to me, I'm referencing other works in my writing)) and bad Nabokov.

Why on earth the sloppy ending, why the 16 pages on the Nightwatchers? Why, why, why?

The characterization bored me: the Bluebloods seemed transparent and Schneider was too much of a mary-sue. And Blue seemed too much an extension of the author, too hung up in her own cleverness. The endless, at times very purple chapters relieved by sparkling dialogue, quotable ideas and general fun. It was too long, contained too many badly-written chapters, had a fun structure, bad ending, intriguing structure and "final exam", but all in all a disappointing book. I think I might have to remedy it by paging through TSH.

Written, by the by, by Marisha Peasl - she has obviously read both Tartt and Nabokov, and fails miserably at striking out on her own.

It also lacked the breathtaking passages Tartt flaunts so marvelously. ("And always, always, that same toast. Live forever.")s
If anyone else reads it and makes more sense of it than I have, enlighten me.
nirinia: (Default)
"Special Topics in Calamity Physics", wtf? Finished by sheer willpower, I do not think I will ever work up the stamina to re-read it. If I ever do publish something, someone please tell me if it's reading like an early, fake (taking a leaf out of "The Lambs of London" (alas, Blue has gotten to me, I'm referencing other works in my writing)) and bad Nabokov.

Why on earth the sloppy ending, why the 16 pages on the Nightwatchers? Why, why, why?

The characterization bored me: the Bluebloods seemed transparent and Schneider was too much of a mary-sue. And Blue seemed too much an extension of the author, too hung up in her own cleverness. The endless, at times very purple chapters relieved by sparkling dialogue, quotable ideas and general fun. It was too long, contained too many badly-written chapters, had a fun structure, bad ending, intriguing structure and "final exam", but all in all a disappointing book. I think I might have to remedy it by paging through TSH.

Written, by the by, by Marisha Peasl - she has obviously read both Tartt and Nabokov, and fails miserably at striking out on her own.

It also lacked the breathtaking passages Tartt flaunts so marvelously. ("And always, always, that same toast. Live forever.")s
If anyone else reads it and makes more sense of it than I have, enlighten me.

On Reading

Jul. 13th, 2007 06:55 pm
nirinia: (Default)
I am so much wiser for reading; not because I can express myself more accurately, throw more references about me or flaunt my knowledge of obscure authors; because I have, in my short lifetime, known more people than the non-reading will in lives twice, or thrice, the length of mine. There are the acquaintances I would never admit to in public, the childhood friends (C.S. Lewis), the old companions (Dahl), the study groups (Nabokov), the enemies (Rice) and the ones that flutter by - here I shall, when the mood strikes me, insert a reference to lepidoptery - (T.S. Eliot).

If there is one thing I will never stop, it is my reading.

(This is, for the record, what tea, a book and reclining in a good chair does to me after a day of being waylaid by dusty books and dustier-still shelves. (Oh, and "you have been waylaid by enemies and must defend yourself" *g*.))

On Reading

Jul. 13th, 2007 06:55 pm
nirinia: (Default)
I am so much wiser for reading; not because I can express myself more accurately, throw more references about me or flaunt my knowledge of obscure authors; because I have, in my short lifetime, known more people than the non-reading will in lives twice, or thrice, the length of mine. There are the acquaintances I would never admit to in public, the childhood friends (C.S. Lewis), the old companions (Dahl), the study groups (Nabokov), the enemies (Rice) and the ones that flutter by - here I shall, when the mood strikes me, insert a reference to lepidoptery - (T.S. Eliot).

If there is one thing I will never stop, it is my reading.

(This is, for the record, what tea, a book and reclining in a good chair does to me after a day of being waylaid by dusty books and dustier-still shelves. (Oh, and "you have been waylaid by enemies and must defend yourself" *g*.))

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