I’ve been—knock on wood—sailing calmer waters lately. Sure, my ever-lengthening list of gripes remains handy, but the clusterfucks are at a manageable, if not tolerable, level. I’m only able to articulate this now, actually—at the close of a day that’s oddly restful despite the terrible weather and the work that comes with it; at the close of a weekend that was fun and the happy kind of exhausting, give or take a few grumbles from my frail, mortal body. I’m in a good mood, if only because I’m not in a foul mood.
That’s cheery. Here’s another: The reading’s picking up, if only because the reading actually exists. Last week, I finished The Cuckoo’s Calling by Robert Galbraith [or, J.K. Rowling writing under a pseudonym], and it was just so very, very good. It was damned good reading—and I couldn’t be prouder that the post-HP Rowling wasn’t crap this time around, hahaha. Soon, I hope, I can say something more substantial than squeals over “a sexy (sorry) Mad-Eye Moody in contemporary, Muggle London.”
And then on Friday night, I nursed my wonky body by concluding my nth reread of Jane Eyre. As always, it was more than what I keep expecting it to be. I mean: With every reunion, there’s always the fear that I’d outgrown this constant in my bibliophilic life—but I’m always proven wrong. [Note mostly to self: There’s daunting writing ahead of me, on Rochester and on why I am not Jane Eyre. Get on that.]
I also finished reading another Mary Balogh reissue, The Notorious Rake, and it’s got to be one of the more torrid, intensely emotional of her backlist that I’ve read. Which means, basically, that this bucket of angst and Big Misunderstanding was right up my alley. [Another note to self: Start work on that ode to Balogh, please.]
I’ve also unwrapped the behemoth of a book that is Joe Hill’s NOS4A2. I grew rather fond of Joe Hill when I was reading the creeptastic-but-so-full-of-heart Horns, and didn’t really think twice when I bought this hardcover. So I am pleased (and more than a little relieved) to report that NOS4A2 is diverting reading, thus far. It’s got, for one, a Scrabble-loving, punk-coiffed, BAMF of a librarian. [Yet another note to self: I wanted to read The Shining before its already-much-lauded sequel Doctor Sleep comes out, but it seems I am too late. Eugh, though, I am excited for all the things!]
We had an unexpected long weekend here—was pretty much stuck indoors because of the monsoon rains that threatened, yet again, to submerge my darling archipelago. I kept one eye on work, but it was pretty much a chill day: I stayed in bed and read, hung out with the P. when I wasn’t reading. Most of my freer time in the afternoon was spent with The Lost World by Arthur Conan Doyle, my read for the Classics Club Spin. I never expected I’d be laughing so much: For one, Professor Challenger is among the strangest characters I’ve ever come across. I’ve been writing down his insults and setdowns as he throws them; a sample: “The sub-species of the human race to which you unfortunately belong has always been below my mental horizon.”
So, yes, I’ve been reading lately, there’s that: I’ve gotten back the fierceness of willfully finding the time to read, and when I choose not to read, it’s because of doing things that’ll make me happy. Like, um, buying books. Ahem. Segue into the books I’ve bought since I bought a bucketful of books not two weeks ago. Because of reasons. Aaaand I’m ending it the commentary here, that you may freely behold evidence of my slow spiral into insolvency—due to the not-at-all-unwarranted conviction that the more books there are in my possession, the happier I am; screw food and the rent.
Be well, everybody.