I went through a blissful couple of weeks where I was devouring books in a heartbeat and activating all kinds of goodness on my library holds list (it’s hovered between 24 and 25 titles (the max allowed for staff) for many weeks now). I felt that I was making Progress and that I could Save the World through Swift Reading of Good Books.
Then I hit some kind of a snag, where suddenly it appeared I’d been too optimistic, because my basket at work was overflowing (literally) with gorgeous, fat books to be read. Plus I already had a bunch at home.
Here’s what I actually finished this week:
The Dead Beat: Lost Souls, Lucky Stiffs, and the Perverse Pleasures of Obituaries by Marilyn Johnson. Leila doesn’t lie. She recommends good stuff. You might think obits are depressing or boring or blah blah. Don’t. The book is great, even if it doesn’t turn you into an obit reader (but really, what’s your excuse?)
Here’s what I’ve been reading and haven’t finished:
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. I do believe my favorite part is the narrator. This is one of those books where reading reviews & such isn’t really helpful. You just need to jump in and see if you like it. But how could you not love this?
After telling us how a character will die, the narrator says:
Of course, I’m being rude. I’m spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it. I have given you two events in advance, because I don’t have much interest in building mystery. Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It’s the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me.
Making eyes at me from my shelf are Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth, Yellow Star, Saving the World, and Havoc, in Its Third Year. This is of course not to mention the two items still sitting in my basket at work or the twenty-five items currently on hold. Or the gazillion and two recommendations I receive every day.