First day of destitution because I am absolute shite re bookish restraint—it went rather well. I just rolled around on the sofa, an ear cocked for work shenanigans, napping and reading and feasting on chocolates and napping and daydreaming and napping.
The above books make up the wee dent I’ve managed to inflict onto my To-Be-Read landmass. Frankly, January was not as enriching a bibliophilic experience as I would have liked—the first books read in the year put up a struggle or bored me to tears. Some books were just myeh, their biggest offense was that they existed for me only to help me pass the time.
But, of course, thankfully, there were highlights. I’ve finally read Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence (thank you, #LARMonth!)—and the farther I move away from it, the more certain I am that it belongs in my personal canon. As does Frank Miller and David Mazzucchelli’s enlightening Batman: Year One, which probably single-handedly transformed my opinion of Bruce Wayne. I also read the last Sherlock Holmes stories I’ll ever get to read for the first time—which only clears the way for heightened Sherlockian dorkery, methinks.
Oh, January, you strange strange strange creature. And what about myself, having retained the hopefulness for the year ahead? It’s been a curious month—I suppose I am at a nice place at the moment; tellingly, I am not trying to weigh my joys. (Universe, if you’re listening in, that does not give you leave to heap sorrow upon me.) Also, it has been preternaturally cold in my part of the world; my tropical born-and-bred bones are torn among gratitude, loathing, and fretfulness about climate change. I still want to write more, and I am going to read more, and I’m going to spend the sick days trying to do a combination of both between naps—but, yeah, here we are: February.
Imagine that. Right. Only the haziest bookish plans for February. Have just finished reading David Shields’ How Literature Saved My Life, which sort of crept up on me—I found his Reality Hunger unbearable, by the way, rather untrustworthy. Literature, on the other hand: I have never liked a book I disagreed with so much so much. I have two books left over from January—Susan Choi’s My Education and Jude Morgan’s The Taste of Sorrow—and one book left over from last year—the beleaguering S., which I’ve been thinking of giving up on, actually, as it’s become rather tedious. But—we’ll see, we’ll see.
ETA: It’s Graphic Novels February, woohoo. (Thanks to Lu for the tip!) I’ve got a few ideas re what to read–some Batman comics here and there, will probably get to some Marvel comics—Seven Soldiers of Victory looks amazing, btw—and maybe some sad bastard graphic novels? We’ll see!