La-dee-dah. Have completely thrown off my reading schedule with these beauties. First picture, from a BookSale—never knew that there was one right beside the hospital. Imagine my glee, imagine my Waaaah at realizing I could’ve found a place to traipse to when it all got to be too much. There’s still the future. Anyway:
- The Interpretation of Dreams, by Sigmund Freud. Why not?
- Toot & Puddle, by Holly Hobbie. Whatever book of the Toot & Puddle series is auto-buy for my boyfriend and I. We like cute pigs who live in Woodcock Forest.
- Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction, by Charles Baxter. I love how Baxter talks about fiction, its essence, the reading of it, the craft. I squealed when I found this book in the depths of the store.
- Sudden Rain, by Maritta Wolff. I have no idea who she was, but the blurb was intriguing—this was a manuscript found in the author’s fridge long after she’d died. A 1970s Little Children, it was called.
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And. From a few days ago—the following’s from the newly installed bookshelves of my friend Kael—the big fat tome at the bottom and the skinny red one on top are journals. I figured I’d get started on Calvino and Chabon—authors I have never read before, but am quite willing to sample.
- Love Letters of Great Men, edited by Ursula Doyle.
- If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler, by Italo Calvino.
- I Have the Right to Destroy Myself, by Young-Ha Kim.
- Mendocino and Other Stories, by Anne Packer.
- The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, by Michael Chabon.
Oy, reading. One of the few things that gives me true bliss.