Work is becoming a bit more manageable lately (by lately, I mean as of this afternoon), so I’m counteracting that by routinely buying used books and checking out books from the library until the stacks grow large and start to tip a little on the bookshelf. Then I feel comfortably overwhelmed again.
In the stack right now:
- Sister Carrie by Theodore Drieser (“omg her name is Carrie and your name is Carrie. that’s soooo funnylol!!!”)
- Shakespeare’s Wife by Germaine Greer (“Where there’s a Will, Ann Hathaway.”)
- The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner (continuing my existential excursions)
- Marathon Training for Dummies (I’m doing SF next July. It’s a long way off, and I have a long way to go.)
- Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert (my friend is visiting from France this weekend. It’s only fitting.)
- Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie
- And then I had to talk myself out of buying Portrait of a Lady by Henry James. I ran by the secondhand store the other day and decided to pop in. It was there waiting for me, for only a dollar. Of course, I carry my debit card with me everywhere, even inside of the tiny key pocket in my running shorts. But I managed to walk out without it. I’ll probably buy it later this week even though I have no time to actually open the cover. I have no self-control when it comes to les livres.
Last night, I saw an Audrey Hepburn movie at an old theater in Palo Alto. I was a bit disturbed by it. I mean, at the time, its social backwardness was kind of funny. But then I realized we haven’t come that far since the 1960’s. I’ll think about it some more and get back to you.