I may have mentioned here once or twice before my deep and abiding love for the written word. No?
Well, in the last week, while in Boulder and DC, I read five books in seven days. Three novels: Philip Pullman’s The Golden Compass and The Subtle Knife (the first two books in the very-much-not-just-for-children His Dark Materials series) and China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station (not to be missed by anyone who likes dark, evocative, downright creepy writing and appreciates a lushly described setting that’s as much a character as any other in the book). On the non-fiction front, Diane Ackerman’s poetic, though occasionally inaccurate (I read too much science) A Natural History of the Senses and Richard Dawkins’ majestic The Selfish Gene (which I’m not sure how I’d gone for so long without reading). I now believe that anyone who participates in blogmemes should be required to read The Selfish Gene, at least the part where Dawkins coins and explicates the word "memes."
Next up: Geraldine Brooks’ March. I read the first page and a half out loud to my mom, reveling in the gorgeous sad language, then put it away so I could read it later in a slow-savoring mode rather than gorging the whole thing down in a single giant up-til-three gollup. Anyone else read it already? It’s the story of Mr. March, the father in Little Women, away on the battlefields of the Civil War. And it won the Pulitzer, and I’ve been meaning to increase my litsnob quotient by reading each year’s Pulitzer, Booker and National Book Critics award-winning novels, and though I’ve made no progress so far on that front, this seems a solid place to start. And I loved Little Women on all four or five or six readings.
Snow? Tea? Boxes? It’s an inexplicably cold and snowy day, which will wreak havoc on Fisher’s class’ planned field trip to the chicken farm. Snowy days are perfect for curling up with a cup of tea and a good book–but alas, what I’m supposed to be doing with books these days is not reading them, but packing them into an endless series of banker’s boxes so that they can be transported to storage, there to languish until we move.
So far I’ve emptied out one bookshelf (the four-shelf, crammed-two-deep one beside my bed) and filled five boxes with lovely, beautiful, spectrum-spanning books. They wait patiently, spines up, arrayed to maximize space without crunching their margins or wrinkling their jackets (those few that have jackets–how I hate hardcovers!).
I miss them already.