In which there is talk of the slim stories which have travelled with me within the city, while bulkier volumes stayed home. Amitav Ghosh's Flood of Fire and Paul Auster's 4 3 2 1are awkward travelling companions. As are some of the skinnies in my current stack, like Iris Murdoch's
It occurs to me that I should have a series of posts titled "I Forgot My Key". Because what that inevitably means is that I must find a warm or cool place to wait until Mister BIP is due home. Which translates into an impromptu library visit. For the past
Jessamy is eight years old. When readers meet her, she is in a closet. She doesn't mind readers knowing, but she is hesitant to admit it to her mother, who has believed her to be outside. This is but the tip of the iceberg which comprises Jessamy's interior truth, and
Such good reading this summer, so far. In other respects, perhaps mine has not been the most productive summer. But it all depends what one puts on a to-do list, doesn't it! What if your to-do list was all about the books in your stacks? House of Anansi, 2015
In an effort to manage out-of-control stacks of reading, I try to choose disparate stories in the mass of current reads. Slipping Emily Schultz's The Blondes in with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Americanah seemed like a good bet. A fantastic tale of a plague which seems to infect blonde women. Ifemelu
