For the second week in a row, I feel obliged to make excuses for my small reading amount. I had a dental appointment on Wednesday, and because I'm a huge wimp when it comes to dentists, I requested a sedative. I still don't remember anything between 9:00AM and 6:00PM that day. Saturday was spent preparing for an interview today (yes, on a Sunday) for an editorial internship which labor laws apparently precluded me from taking. In the words of Liz Lemon: blargh.
However, the book I did find time to read--Playing House by Fredrica Wagman--is just absolutely amazing. Wagman writes in flowing yet abrupt sentences that blend into impressionistic paragraphs, and even though it's difficult to keep up with her, I am able to immerse myself in her words and let go of the front of my mind that is always wondering, "What next?"
That "What next?" is something which constantly nags me, no matter which reading direction I go. I wonder, are other people experience this? Does anyone else feel the gravitational pull that an unread book can possess even as you are enjoying the book in your hands? The power that books have is incredible: one can spur our imagination while its brother tantalizes us.
Sometimes it's nice have a lot of new review books. It helps to prevent my wandering literary eye.
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