October Book Review

Excitedly most of the books on the list this month were bought at Shakespeare and Company in Paris though I'm sure you could find any of them in your local bookstore.

MY SISTER'S KEEPER by JODI PICOULT

I actually finished this book in September but traveling prevented a review until now. First to say I enjoyed this book doesn't feel right at all. How can one enjoy a story this depressing! I did find the ethical dilemmas of genetic engineering and organ donation intriguing. When I finally reached the ending- a task that at times felt like a journey toward inevitability- I found the author's conclusion predictable and lamentably tidy for an otherwise challenging/frustrating text. Read one if you want to know what all the fuss is about, but don't expect to find a classic wrapped in a summer read. [read]

THE READER by BERNHARD SCHLICK

I devoured this book in little over 24 hours. Remarkably easy to read for an English translation of a foreign text. The story is excellent and made me really appreciate the movie's interpretation. Still make sure to read the book because brilliant passages need to be verbally consumed. Next time I pick it up I plan to read it aloud. [read, re-read, recommend]

THE WOMAN IN BLACK by SUSAN HILL

A well written, short ghost story. This is definitely a classic read for October when if you are at all like me you enjoy thinking of ghost and ghouls. Not overly frightening, it reads like a conclusion to a night of ghost stories around a fire as it is intended. [read, re-read]

MOSTLY HARMLESS by DOUGLAS ADAMS

The final installment to THE HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY diverts little from the trajectory set forth by the four books previous. Still humorous, the story plays with the idea of linear time measurements which made the timeline of the first few chapter more than a bit complicated. Overall a great conclusion to a very fun series. [read, re-read, recommend]

Just, Margaret

Rediscovering a beloved classic

I loved the Anne books when I was a child. I wept as I finished the final chapter Rilla of Ingleside simply because I felt like I was saying goodbye to a friend. I decided just before I left the UK that I would re-read these favorite books of my childhood. I'm kinda hoping to rediscover what it is that attracted me to the books and what about Anne I so admired... probably that after all her silliness and flights of independence she ended up with Gilbert [smile]. He was my first literary love.

Just, Margaret

August Book Review

I’m reading so many books these days that I can hardly keep track. So I thought I would add a book review post to my regular movie review at the end of each month. Though instead of using the handy star rating system, I’ve devised a different scale of my own. (Skip, read, re-read, recommend.) Hope you enjoy.

Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons
Very funny novel following the adventures/exploits of Flora Poste, a busybody with the goal of making the world “tidy”, as she visits her distant relations on a farm in Sussex. Such a delightful book sustained by enduring wit and humor! (read, re-read, and recommend)

The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood
I've read one other of Atwood's books, The Handmaid's Tale, and neither it nor this one were disappointing. Both were well written, uniquely conceived tales of womanhood throughout the ages. This was particularly singular in form of style and structure... both modeled in ways from Greek mythology, literature, and drama. I enjoyed it, but I find reading Atwood requires at least for me a desire to immerse myself in feminist language, plot, attitude and sensibility not something that I'm always in the mood for in recreation reading. (read)

The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

This popular fiction read is not my normal fare, but the movie trailers spiked my interest. I wasn't terribly disappointed. It was well written and the story was truly unique. A quite long book (500 odd pages if I remember correctly) and so becoming attached to the characters was really inevitable. Of course I was in tears by the end of the book, even though I had a feeling I knew how it would end. I guess the most interesting part of the book is the timeline. Each chapter is subtitled with a date and the ages of the characters involved... it all has to do with the issue of time traveling. Though I did find myself looking back once or twice for clarification of which version of each character was speaking (the book is also written in a split narrative of the husband and wife's perspectives), Niffenegger accomplished the feat of transporting the reader along with Henry, the time traveler of the title, on the backwards and forwards progression of his life. Definitely perfect for a book club, as it would bring up an interesting discussions: time, relationships, trust, absence, ect. (read and recommend)

Just, Margaret

Just finished.

Just closed the cover on the first final istallment of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Trilogy of Four. If that makes sense you've probably read the books, if not I'm not sure I can help you. Though the question evoking the meaning of life the universe and everything (which is 42) was never revealed I still thoroughly enjoyed the series. I even found a passage that I might use in my dissertation. Hope my tutor likes the books. [smile] It was a perfect summer read... entertaining enough to keep me interested, but not so entertaining that I couldn't put it aside for a few hours and get some other work done. Best of all, the books are total nonsense so there was no danger of feeling like I had to understand a word of it.

Just, Margaret

Misplaced my towel.

Those of you who've read Hitchhiker's Guide will understand the title of this post to mean that I'm a bit confused these days. So many thoughts are bouncing around in my head... what still needs to be researched for my dissertation, booking my ticket home in October, finalizing my travel plans for my trip to France, and deciding what to do with my life. Read in preparation for Bible study tonight something that felt relevant. Maybe it just felt profound to me because of my current state of mind, but I still want to share. The closing statement to the lesson was: "The risk in playing it safe is the risk that we never grow into the person we are called to be." So I added another question to my list: Who am I called to be? I feel like I'm on the cusp of a big change in my life, leading to what I'm not sure and I guess that's kind of the point of this post. I'm entering a period of discernment and maybe reading a book that humorously attempts to provide a survival guide to the vast universe of which we are only a small part is the perfect place to start... "Don't Panic."

Just, Margaret

Escape of or should I say from "The Scapegoat"

With great intentions today of finishing du Maurier's tragic and somewhat depressing novel, The Scapegoat, I strolled over to the Oxfam Bookstore where I volunteer this morning with the book in tow. Sadly or happily (I haven't quite decided yet which) after cashing out our first customer of the day and settling at the till with my cup of coffee, I realized my book had disappeared. I looked around for it, beside the register and in the drawer where I normally lay the book I'm reading while helping a customer, then realized I must have haphazardly dropped it along with the books he purchased in our first customer's bag. Oops. And people look at me funny when I talk of renaming my blog "The Misadventures of Margaret." [smile]

Part of me found misplacing the book I was so close to finishing slightly dissettling. I looked briefly to see if we had a copy in the store I could borrow to finish, but sadly no. Then I began to think about how the story had taken a slightly depressing turn in the last few chapters. The life of the protagonist was unravelling... a missing daughter, a pregnant wife who fell from the chateau's second story window, finding out he was responsible for the death of his sister's fiance. Maybe losing the book was actually a good thing. Sure I won't know how the story ends originally, but I don't think it will end happily and I would like to think that the problems were worked out in the end and a new, happier, guileless character emerged.

The other exciting avenue of imagining is what the man will think when he finds the stowaway among his parcels. I think if the situation were reversed I'd feel particularly drawn to the book that seemed to have chosen me. Perhaps he'll find it an interesting read. I hope he won't try to return it... sort of would ruin my fantasy of the book's travels.

Think I'm silly for spouting on and on about this if you must, but I do have one other detail to add. Not an hour later, a woman came by to donate some books. On top of the pile she handed me was The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Why is this significant? Well, when I was choosing the book that escaped, The Hitchhiker's Guide was among the books I was choosing from. It kinda feels like that's the book I should have been reading all along. I'll let you know what I think when I've finished.

Just, Margaret

The Optimist's Daughter

Part of my relaxing Sabbath included finishing reading the above mentioned book by Eudora Welty.  With some books as I approach the end, my reading slows to savor the moments, others I just rush through to check them off my "have read" list.  With The Optimist's Daughter, the pace speed up, but not to rush toward the conclusion, but to discover the end.  The action was fairly slow.  The relationships developed in this short novel were fascinating.  Its the story of a woman dealing with death.  Laurel the title character is both tragic and hopeful in her approach.  She is essentially left completely alone.  The meat of the book deals with her process of grief through the funeral and inventorying of the house.  I'd never read Welty before that I remember, but I found her storytelling simplistic and profound.  Below are just a few passages that caught my eye.  

     The guilt of outliving those you love is justly to be borne, she thought. Outliving is something we do to them. The fantasies of dying could be no stranger than the fantasies of living. Surviving is perhaps the strangest fantasy of them all. 

     All of them wandered toward the rose bed... Sienna-bright leaves and thorns like spurts of match-flame had pierced through the severely cut-back trunk.  If it didn't bloom this year, it would next:  "That's how gardeners must learn to look at it," her mother would say.

     Memory returned like spring, Laurel thought.  Memory had the character of spring.  In some cases, it was the old wood that did the blooming.

      She ran her finger in a loving track across 'Eric Brighteyes' and 'Jane Eyre,' 'The Last Days of Pompeii' and 'Carry On, Jeeves.'  Shoulder to shoulder, they had long sence made their own family.  For every book here she had heard their voices, father's and mother's.  And perhaps it didn't matter to them, not always, what they read aloud; it was the breath of life flowing between them, and the words of the moment riding on it that held them in delight.  Between some two people every word is beautiful, or might as well be beautiful. 

Consider picking it up and transporting yourself to Mississippi for a few hours.  By the way if you needed further motivation , The Optimist's Daughter is a Pulitzer Prize winner.  

 

Just, Margaret

A painted night sky

Its five to nine here in Bristol and the traces of our beautiful sunny Spring day are still visible in the sky.  Its getting darker, but I can still clearly see people walking on the side walk and houses across the street.  I love that we're having so much sun, but without the oppressive heat of a Georgia summer.  This is exactly what I would call perfect "porch weather".  It does wonders for my soul this sun.  One problem:  it makes it hard to think about going to sleep.  And I'm so a full 8 hours girl.  [smile]  Anyway the whole scenario reminded me of this children's book my parents used to read to me.  It was all about a young child who couldn't fall asleep in summer at her appropriate bedtime because the sun was still "awake".  As a solution her parents painted a shade for her window of the night sky, with a star, sliver of a moon, and an owl (or at least that's how I remember it).  I always thought it was so magical that she could just pull down the shade and it would be nighttime.  

I'm so thankful for my childhood.  I always felt so safe and loved.  So many memories I could share... sack swings, a tree house, our little plastic kitchen, Skippy the duck, and Pumpkin the guinea pig.  I should probably write these things down. I'm always telling others, namely my grandparents and other older adults I run into, that they need to preserve their memories for later generations.  Guess I should follow my own advice.  My life as a 25 year old is so future focused, but that I shouldn't take time to reflect about my journey so far.  

I'm still sitting at my desk looking out my window and the sky is considerably darker.  I think its safe to say that night has fallen on Bristol.  The first stars would be visible if I didn't live in the city.  Guess I'll start evening rituals, perhaps read a little, and seek rest and renewal.  Sweet dreams. 

Just, Margaret

Top Sales

Today I picked up an extra shift of volunteering at our local Oxfam charity book shop.  Since moving to Clifton Village, I've stopped by the bookshop at least twice a month.  Most of the time trying very hard to resist buying another book.  It definitely helps to have the local branch of the library right across the street.  On more than one occasion I've found a book I'd like to buy then run over to the library and borrowed it. [smile]  Anyway I decided a couple of weeks ago that I'd really like to volunteer a couple of hours a week at the shop to bring a little stability to my schedule and hopefully to take advantage of the opportunity to meet a few more people in my neighborhood.  I've worked a couple of times so far and its been really great.  Today was my first shift totally by myself and it went really well.  The manager checked the afternoon sales and they were about equal to all that was sold yesterday.  Perhaps this is because Thursday gets sales from people anticipating the free time for the weekend, maybe it was just a fluke.  I like to think the spike in sales was because of the extra sweet smile of the Georgia "Peach" behind the counter.  My mission to spread Southern hospitality wherever I go seems fairly secure.

Just, Margaret  

A weird week

A few days ago a friend at my house and I were reading our horoscopes, just for fun, from a magazine supplement that comes in with the Sunday paper.  I don't really believe in all that stuff and neither does he.  That being said the planets or stars or whatever certainly seemed to be converging into a crazy heap this week.  Maybe its the spring weather- making everyone a bit cagey.  Simply stated it was weird.  I even had this whole out of body experience... at least thats the only way I can think to explain some of my actions.  I don't really feel like rehashing it all here.  Not something that needs to be remembered necessarily though I know myself well enough to know I will.  It is over now.  Things happened and next week we begin anew.  In honor of the crazy week I've had and of "the Bard" who we started things off with, here's a quote from A Midsummer's Night Dream.

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumber'd here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:

if you pardon, we will mend:

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call;

So, good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.

Just, Margaret

Re-reading Shakespeare

After watching several Shakespeare adaptations in the last couple of days, I decided to pick up the real thing.  I'd forgotten how adept Shakespeare is in communicating the ups and downs of love in his comedies.  Speaking of, I think that one of the failures of my South Georgian education was that most of the Shakespeare I was required to read were tragedies (Romeo and Juliet, Julius Caesar, Macbeth, ect.).  In fact I can't think of one of his comedies that I actually read in conjunction with a class.  There's just so much murder, betrayal, and suicide one can take before you develop this picture of Shakespeare as some depressing sadist intent in destroying the lives of all his characters.  [smile] So I'm re-reading Much Ado About Nothing and reading Taming of the Shrew for the first time in hopes of remembering the storytelling skills of one of England's most famous playwrights.  Its quite relevant reading actually as "The Bard's" 445 birthday is just a few days away, plus I'm hoping to journey to Stratford upon Avon sometime this summer.  

In other news, Bristol is enjoying another beautiful (and warm) Spring day which means the parks are populated with students preparing for exams, professionals on lunch breaks, nannies with strollers, and the random dog chasing a frisbee.  Its great!  I just hope it lasts through the summer. [fingers crossed]

Just, Margaret

A book without a reader

Thursday evening I stopped by the University library to stock up on reading material and DVDs for the long weekend.  Needing to relax from academic work, I decided to look for a novel... something to escape into, somewhere different from here.  So I wandered into the literature section of the University library, honestly a new exploration as my previous research had most exclusively been limited to the CC section of books in anthropology and archaeology.  Somehow I happened upon a section of Southern (as in the US South) writers... quite odd and coincidental right, but exactly what I needed, where I needed to travel I think.  [smile]

Rifling through the books before me I immediately grabbed McCuller's The Ballad of the Sad Cafe and thought I'd try for one more just in case the grip of that odd ailment that promises a premature death of the relationship between book and reader took hold.  My eyes were drawn to an older volume with a yellowed blue spine on which the title: Siesta and author:  Barry Fleming were prominently displayed in the fantastically modern simplicity of a 20s font.  Hoping you can picture exactly what I'm describing, instead of just thinking I've lost it by spending so much time describing something so inconsequential.  [smile]  Its just that as I reflect on this book and choosing it in the library I'm hoping I'll be able to divine my own unconscious reasons.  Sometimes I guess people don't choose books, books choose their reader. And if any book in that library needed a reader to choose it, this was the one.  Since 1977 when it was acquired by the library no other student or faculty had checked it out.  The sheet on which dates were to be stamped, bearing the old university logo, was completely empty.  Something about a book which had no reader felt so sad to me that I decided I must read it.  Ridiculous reason to check out and read a book, I know, but like I said sometimes books choose you.  

Its not such a bad book either, though definitely not the best work of Southern literature I've read.  The author is a native of Georgia and thats where the story is set.  Georgetown, Georgia in the 1920s.  It was published before the Second World War, so there's no eerie nostalgia for a time lost.  It really seems like Fleming is just writing what he's observed.  It is filled with racism and sexism, but that was very much a part of that world.  In some ways (not those I just listed as much), it reminds me of the Georgia I know.  The cotton fields, the heat of summer, the magnolia blossoms, the tensions of small town life.  The book's only real main character is Georgia sun that beats down upon the town waiting for rain.  Random citizens of Georgetown flow in and out of focus.  I have some feelings that just as the clouds will eventually converge to bring rain, the characters are also building toward some type of storm.  

Didn't mean for this post to become a novel of its own... I think I'll get back to reading my anonymous book for a bit.

Just, Margaret 

Read this.

I read this post by my friend Nate earlier this week.  He presents a really great discussion starter regarding that crucial point in the relationship of every reader with each book that they read when they decide to either keep reading or just drop it.  I know I've felt the inevitable early end to a book coming, sometimes within the first few pages.  Why?  Sometimes the plot is too complex, sometimes its not complex enough.  As I mention in the comment section, sometimes a book is just a victim of exterior circumstances.  I can't explain it any better than Nate, but I know I've been there.  Something to this about... feel free to continue the conversation either here or there.  

Just, Margaret

Waiting

I've been reading Rumi.  Some of you out their may already know that if you pay attention to what's "in my carryon." [smile] My parents gave me the book along with some candy hearts for Valentine's Day.  And the night that it arrived (which was actually several days after Valentine's Day) I just so excited to flip it open to a random page and just began reading.  Everything I had heard of Rumi up to this point was kinda shrouded in mystery.  The people I knew who really enjoyed reading his words, often said I should read him, but never really why.  I'm coming toward an understanding of what they meant.  I always find it remarkable when I connect with an author's words, especially words that were written thousands of years before.  There is something that feels so personally relevant in every passage I've read out of the book so far.  I find myself continually feeling like the words written on the page are ones that I have always intuitively felt, but never able to express.  A real union of souls... 

In the midst of reading Rumi on Sunday during some Sabbath time, I began to think about the coming of Lent.  (Let me illuminate the whole picture:  I was also listening to some music through my faithful Macbook- a mix tape with a little of this and that.  Anyway Matthew Sweet's song I've Been Waiting came on and I thought of Lent.)  And without beginning to sound so preachy (I can't deny that it is in the genes, but I can choose not to indulge [smile])... I thought about how Lent is about waiting, anticipation of something, i.e. Easter, to come.  Its also associated with a time of self-denial, but thats really the part of Lent I can never quite master.  I don't mean being committed to giving up sweets or some TV show, ect.  I mean that I can't master the feeling of self-denial, which I usually think of as being quite negative. 

I've had a lot of experience with waiting.  There are some things in my life that I feel like I've been waiting for for 25 years.  And I guess I could, after all this time, fall easily into doubt... believing that because it (falling in love or figuring out what I'd like to do with the rest of my life or finally finding a place to live for longer than just a few years at a time) hasn't happened yet it never will.   I just can't wait, even in Lent, without looking toward what is to come, Easter, with hope.  Some may consider this optimism to be naive, but I feel blessed to be able to look at life this way.  Hoping and trusting God to guide me through all these experiences is very exciting and it helps me to live more fully into the present.  That brings me back to Rumi, who I feel must have also felt this way waiting for those moments of epiphany, fulfillment of hope, for little Easters.  He writes, "The Most Alive Moment":

The most living moment comes when 

those who love each other meet each

other's eyes and in what flows

between them then.  To see your face

in a crowd of others, or alone on a

frightening street I weep for that.

Our tears improve the earth.  The

time you scolded me, your gratitude, 

your laughing, always your qualities 

increase the soul.  Seeing you is a 

wine that does not muddle or numb, 

We sit inside the cypress shadow

where amazement and clear thought

twine their slow growth into us.    

Just waiting, Margaret

Holly and Ivy

This is my very first Christmas celebration on my blog.  Up to this point I've kinda stayed away from choosing a theme or pattern for this blog, but I think I will establish one tradition for this and future Christmases I celebrate here.  One of the most important parts of the holiday for our family are the seasonal books, for children and those for adults, that are brought out each year from their place in the attic.  These books make our holiday special in a way that cannot be easily defined.  They help frame our thoughts throughout the season and sometimes, as is the case with Dav Pilkey's Dragon's Merry Christmas, just make us laugh.  The first book I ever remember reading at Christmas is The Story of Holly and Ivy by Rumer Godden.  Its my mother's favorite and always makes her cry (and me too I must admit).  [smile]  The book's now beginning to fall apart, but it remains a family favorite.  So I'd like to share with you a short excerpt from this lovely book as my gift to you on this special day.  As sort of a way of introduction, here's the quote from the back cover of the book.  "Here is a story about wishing... IVY is a little orphan who has no one to be with on Christmas Eve.  So she wishes very hard.  HOLLY is the doll left all alone in the toyshop on Christmas Eve.  So she wishes very hard too. What do they wish for? Will their wishes come true?"

  Soon the clocks strike twelve and it is Christmas.  

  Holly heard the bells and -what as this?  People were walking in the street- hurrying.  "Hsst!  T-whoo!" said Abracadabra [a toy owl also left behind on Christmas eve] at them as they passed, but they took no notice.  

  "Then... it has started,"  said Holly.  

  "What has started?" said Abracadabra.

  "It," said Holly.  She could not explain better than that for she did not know yet what "it" meant- this was, after all, her first Christmas- but the bells grew louder and more and more people passed.  Then, it may have beenthe pin of Holly's price ticket, or a spine of tinsel come loose from the shelf, but Holly felt a tiny pricking as sharpe as a prickly on a holly leaf.  "Wish," said the prickle. "Wish."

  "But- the shop is closed," said Holly.  "The children are in bed.  Abracadabra says I must go into storage"  The prickle interrupted.  "Wish!" It went on till Holly wished. 

  Ivy thought the bells woke her or perhaps the passing feet, but then why did she fell something sharp like a thistle or a hard straw in one of the sacks?  She sat up, but she was half asleep and she thought the feet were the St. Agnes's children marching down to breakfast and the bells were the breakfast bell. Then she saw she was still in the shed, though it was filled with a new light, a strange silver light. "Moonlight?" asked Ivy and rubbed her eyes.  She was warm and comfortable n the sacks under the green coat- though there were great white patches on it from the flour- too warm and comfortable to move, and she lay down, but again she felt that thistle or sharp straw.  The light seemed to be calling her, the bells, the hurrying feet; the prickle seemed to tell her to get up.  

  Ivy put on her coat and went out. 

  Outside in the passage the footsteps sounded so loud that she guessed it was the policeman.  She waited until they had passed before she dared come out.  

  In the street the moonlight was so bright that once again Ivy thought it was morning and she was in St. Agnes's and the bells were the breakfast bell.  "Only... there are so many of them," said sleepy Ivy.

  She walked a few steps to the toyshop. She did not know how it came to be there and she thought she was in here St. Agnes's bedroom and it was filled with toys.  Then:  "Not toys," said Ivy, "a toy," and she was wide awake.  She did not even see Abracadabra glaring at her with his green eyes; she looked straight at Holly.  

  She saw Holly's dress and socks and shoes.  She is red and green too, thought Ivy.  She saw Holly's hair, brown eyes, little teeth, and beautiful joints.  They were just what Ivy liked, and, "My Christmas doll!" said Ivy.  

  Holly saw Ivy's face pressed against the window as she had seen so many children's faces that day, but, "This one is different," said Holly.  

  Ivy's hands in their woolen gloves held to the ledge where it said, BLOSSOM, HIGH-CLASS TOYS AND GAMES.  Holly looked at Ivy's hands.  Soon they will be holding me, thought Holly.  Ivy's coat even in the moonlight was as beautiful a green as Holly's dress was a beautiful red, so that they seemed to match, and, "My Christmas girl!" said Holly.   

Many blessings to you and yours.  Merry Christmas!

Just, Margaret

Bath and Jane Austen

Saturday my Rotary counselor, Pat, and I went on a day trip to Bath.  I have to say that after having seen this perfectly lovely city I feel so lucky to just be a bus ride or train trip away.  [smile] Pat and I had a walk-about the city just to kinda orient me to the must-see tourist stops and the little shops she's found on all her trips there.  Although I found Bath to be absolutely beautiful in its autumnal finery, I have been assured that this is Bath at its worse and that I must see it decked out for Christmas and then in the Spring when all the gardens are in bloom.  I have to say I don't have any problem thinking about "having" to go back to Bath more than once while I'm in this country.  "If I must, I must." [smile]  Saturday we visited the Royal Crescent, walked through the Pump Room (and tasted the water I might add), and sought refreshments at Sally Lunn's House, known particularly for Sally Lunn buns that are absolutely delicious! 

Of course walking through Bath I found myself envisioning the characters of Jane Austen's novels.  Think Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth in Persuasion, so far my favorite, I think.  Bath is definitely the perfect setting to rekindle lost love.  Well this morning I finished reading Emma.  Although I knew how it would end I couldn't bear to put it down, but I could imagine letting the story end either.  If you haven't ever read it you should.  There were points when I felt so frustrated by the silly heroine and others when I found myself laughing aloud.  "Miss Bates" is a character of comic genius.  

Just, Margaret

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

I just finished my latest book for the local book club I belong to, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers. This is the book that I read while in the airport last week and I could not put it down, which is a rare occasion with book club reads. I found it so compelling. I'm not sure if you are like me, but I have lots of books that I love and a few (about five) that I would consider favorites. Theses are the books that I have to have my copy of with me at all times. They are the first things I unpack and place in a new home. Well, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter has made it on to my favorites shelf, but tragically I don't own my copy... yet.

So pick up the book and read it if you haven't. I will give you fair warning: The rest of my book club were not fans. They found it a little too depressing, which I found quite odd. To me the book radiated hope for human connection.

Just reading, Margaret

The first and I'm sure not the last post about books

I shared yesterday that I love to read. Today I thought I would elaborate a bit with a quote that I love about books from a documentary I watched about book obsessions. The documentary was called The Stone Reader and it is definitely a must see for anyone who loves to read and has had their life changed by reading a book. The director leads the audience on this seemingly hopeless search for the author of a book that he read years ago. After publishing this first novel, the author simply dropped off the map. Ultimately the documentary is about the mysterious connection that one person make with another when reading. So here is the quote.

Happy reading, Margaret

Its like food. You know, there are some pleasures that simply never run out and books are one of them. In every way from simply diverting yourself from life you enter worlds you couldn't possibly enter in any other way. You feel the pressure of another human soul on the other side of the book and that makes you feel less alone and less trapped in your own body and less isolated. And you feel that you are the brother of the author and that the two of you are working together and that's a very profound, moving experience. It's almost spiritual.