I like bibliophilically attacking the weekends. I mean, although I make certain to have time to read during the workdays [train, long lunch breaks, when boss isn't looking, haha], there’s just something free and home about being collapsed on the bed for hours at a time, just reading and not caring. So: Add to the pile on the floor beside the bed, glare at the world to leave me alone, and read. This weekend, in keeping with my harebrained idea to go mostly-short-fiction this month and after, I chilled with three collections and a novella, which were in different states of Currently Reading. Mmmm.
I finished two collections this weekend — Samuel Johnson is Indignant by Lydia Davis [the third in her Collected Stories] and Dimanche and Other Stories by Irène Némirovsky. It’s love. I reached an epiphany of sorts re Davis; reading Némirovsky’s short fiction reminded me how she can be both lovely and ruthless at the same time. Ah.
What I started this weekend: Portrait of the Mother as a Young Woman by Friedrich Christian Delius and The New York Stories of Elizabeth Hardwick. I picked up Delius earlier this week, but I knew a 117-page sentence deserves my complete attention. Also, I’ve read only two stories so far in the Hardwick collection, but man, where has she been all my life? I’m in love. For seriously.
Ah, work tomorrow. Ah, bag ready to smuggle in some Hardwick. Ah, long weekend a-coming. Orayt.