I am reading again! Properly, I mean. Not half-heartedly picking unread books off the shelf and then forgetting about them the day after. I’ve tried to be ‘modest’ in my selections for the month (as in, not overly ambitious with myself) so I won’t do anything drastic, like go into hibernation again.
One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
- Kristin Lavransdatter pt. 3, Sigrid Undset (reflections here)
- Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen
- Orlando, Virginia Woolf
- The Glass Palace, Amitav Ghosh
And I’m maybe thinking of participating in a few readalongs. Would really like to read some Borges this month, but seeing all my essays are due in the next few days, I’m a bit stretched for time. Also, a few of the books chosen for the yearly thing seem to be obscure. Hence, hard to attain. And if they don’t stock it at the Book Depository, then I ain’t buying it. So we’ll see :)
At the moment, I’m just glad to have rediscovered something that I thought was lost to me forever. Because for the longest time I didn’t read anything at all, and I’d never thought it possible that books would ever not give joy to me. But Claire gave me a beautiful (but sad) quote from The Thirteenth Tale the other day –
“I have always been a reader; I have read at every stage of my life and there has never been a time when reading was not my greatest joy. And yet I cannot pretend that the reading I have done in my adult years matches in its impact on my soul the reading I did as a child. I still believe in stories. I still forget myself when I am in the middle of a good book. Yet it is not the same. Books are for me, it must be said, the most important thing; what I cannot forget is that there was a time when they were at once more banal and more essential than that. When I was a child books were everything. And so there is in me, always, a nostalgic yearning for the lost pleasure of books.”
I hope that at the very, very least, I’ll never lose that nostalgic yearning.