Category Digressions


Girl ahoy, reading comic books

I was supposed to write just about Brubaker’s The Man Who Laughs, but then it kept swerving into a rant about “the barriers of entry” in comic book reading. So here’s that indulgent swerve. See, barriers have an amazing way of reminding you that they existed for you because a) you’re a girl, and b) you got into comics way too late to ever catch up. So, to me, even if the barriers have been tiptoed past or crashed into—out of sheer will, or through a surfeit of giddiness—those barriers keep haunting; they’re like your very own Greek chorus dispensing aphoristic helpings of an inferiority complex. Hell and damnation. [Continue reading.]

GREY — The Juliette Society

Neither porn nor romance

But Sasha Grey absolutely did not write an erotic romance in The Juliette Society; it’s more dangerous, for one, and follows more faithfully the tradition of erotica. That is: Grey’s book isn’t a romance with graphic sex scenes, which usually [tediously] involved forays into a poorly conceived BDSM culture. Sasha Grey isn’t a hanger-on of James’ [utterly frustrating] success—I am arguing that Sasha Grey, with The Juliette Society, was writing under the house of Anaïs Nin, even of Pauline Réage. [Continue reading.]

ex01 _ The Batman Shelf


I don’t take lightly the whole “Books That Changed Your Life” tag, y’all—but The Dark Knight Returns changed my fucking life. This book caused the very landscape of my reading to change—the bowing bookshelves that hold my growing collection [!] of comic books can attest to that. TDKR barreled its way through a barricade I had unintentionally built around a whole genre of literature, gave me new great things to fall in love with, and has since ensured that I will spend my last days at the poorhouse. Vengeance! Justice! Human decency! Badass machinery! Angst parties! Story lines that do not condescend, that bring everything good about the novel into a glossy book-as-object! The artistry that goes into each page, how threaded with thought these books are! And, as I’ve been saying for months now: Nothing fucking beats an aging Batman in a rearing stallion! [Continue reading.]

PROUST — Days of Reading

“Merely the noblest of distractions.”

“For myself,” Marcel Proust writes, “I only feel myself live and think in a room where everything is the creation and the language of lives profoundly different from my own, of a taste the opposite of mine, where I can rediscover nothing of my conscious thought, where my imagination is exhilarated by feeling itself plunged into the heart of the non-self.” I feel immensely giddy that I am allowed a more literal interpretation: I am in the mad throes of love with my room. The good books are better, and the blows are softened when I’m with the books that don’t like me so much. I’m savoring every moment I have in this room, and I’m looking forward to the days and nights-into-days of reading that it will host. Sure: The detritus will find a way to rise, inch across my desk and on the floor; the books will ever so surely contrive a disarray; Real Life will intrude and I’ll be too weary to even try to stop it. But—and, yes, almost a chant of mine now—I will keep reading, I will immerse myself in what Proust rather earnestly dubs as “merely the noblest of distractions”—for as long as the floors gleam, for as long as I have a clear view of every book in the room, for as long as that red chair will hold me. And even after, of course—of course. [Continue reading.]

LARMonth 2014

Glorious, bibliophilic purpose

Am really thankful to Ana and Iris for launching Long-Awaited Reads Month again for this year—because there’s nothing like kicking off the year burdened with glorious bibliophilic purpose. I’m enamored by the whole point of the project—to read that book you’ve always told yourself you’d read, that book you’ve always wondered about, or that book that’s been on your shelves forever. It’s a great push, too, and there’s an added weight—a kind of optimism—attached to every #LARMonth read under your belt. No pressure, of course, Sasha. None at all. [Continue reading.]

Hello, 2014

“Into whatever crazy beauty awaits.”

I flung myself at 2013, sans resolutions and a clear plan and a manual for living and an image of a better self that would’ve been my beacon throughout the year. I suppose I could do the same this year. As with the past year, this 2014: I am certain I am going to be miserable, I am going to make fantastic mistakes, I am going to seize whatever tantalizes me with happiness. I’m going to make art, and I’m going to keep chiding people into making their art. I am going to love as boundlessly and as stupidly as I always have. I’m going to buy more books than time and my finances will allow. I’m going to be Batman. I am going to stay up all night doing nothing but dread the coming morning, I am going to stay up all night reading and loathing the coming morning. I am going to say no, I will screech my thousand-times-yeses at the top of my lungs. I am going to be kind, I will forget to take care of myself, I am going to create even bigger messes, I am going to be brave, I am going to treat everyone like it’s their birthday. I am going to keep making friends with my sadnesses, and I will strong-arm them into hanging out with my joys. I am going to write more, and I will think of giving up writing. I will say “Ah, fuck it!” way too many times. I am going to take more pictures and drink more coffee and smoke more cigarettes and buy more lipstick and love the people I love in the most approximating-creepy way; and I will drag that starlight into whatever crazy beauty awaits, and I will be fierce and I will struggle for calm, and I will end every day curled around a book or the man I love or both, why not both. [Continue reading.]

MACLEAN — No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Because I deserve December

Seems rather telling re what kind of reading year 2013 has been, I know, but: For December, I am going to read books that I really want to read. That is: I’m going to read books I’ve been saving up as treats. So out trot the Anna Campbells and the Sarah MacLeans, the Stephen Kings […]


Back to the classics

Back in 2011—because despite some of my favorite books having been written by now-dead people—I realized I needed to read more of the classics, to have them become a more integral part of my reading life. And although the rigid 2011 plan kind of tapered off, there are more classics on my shelves; and it’s become easier for me to approach these books as, well, books, and not homework. (Not that most of those books of my shelves have been read.) Enter The Classics Club, which has been going around the internet being its awesome self. It took a while for me to jump in—that Iris joined recently was a pretty major nudge—but I figured I’ve been needing a stronger nudge to get cracking on those classics shelves. Anyway. Here’s is a list of fifty books, and I’ll be reading them up until 2016. Yikes. Challenge accepted, Internet. [Continue reading.]


07252013: Something I’ve been meaning to tell you

There has been reading—the kind of reading that simply passes one’s time, the kind of reading you take in for the sake of taking something in, and then the kind of reading that just feels like it fell into place for you at the best possible moment, the kind of reading that makes you so damned relieved you have reading as a respite. (Fine, then: The feel of the whole reading thing has been alarmingly not unlike shaving off an hour or two out from your hectic schedule to take a cross-metropolis trip to see your piece on the side. Reading’s become my querida these past several months—and although my black, illicit-loving heart squeals at the metaphor, the rest of me that’s chomping at the bit to tell the world that it can go fuck itself so it might leave me alone to read, well, that bit aches.) Even if it kills me, I’ll get around to talking what follows at length—I do miss writing here, putting the reading on record and understanding the book’s everything that way—but for now, here’s a quick rundown of the amazing things in the Read pile. [Continue reading.]

06062013 - Pullman & Strayed

06062013: “What do you see?”

Today, through the ever-squint and the haze of over-the-counter medication, I finished reading two books. Two very different books, but both perfectly hurtled me back into the habit of reading—a momentum I do wish will hold. One’s the close of the His Dark Materials trilogy, which was nothing short of a revelation; the other’s Tiny Beautiful Things, the much-adored collection of Dear Sugar pieces. I chose the former (and the two books that preceded it) partly because I’ve become so used to kick-starting a reading life in hibernation, I’ve grown certain a big helping of plot and wonder is just what’s needed; partly because of some unshakeable notion that this there is no better time to read this books than now. And, comparatively more simply: I picked up and feverishly read the Dear Sugar collection because I needed to feel a little less out of sorts, a little less listless, a little less lonely—and not be condescended to. Both books just felt right, and they turned out much better than that. Hurrah, then, for me. [Continue reading.]