There are more, but the “remembering” is key here. Had to look up a few author names, but on the whole the list appeared magically in my head around 3 a.m.–mercifully replacing the entire score of Les Miserables. Books are in no particular order, memory being a slippery thing.
- Bring Up the Bodies, Hilary Mantel. Every bit as terrifying and amazing as Wolf Hall.
- A Lost Memory of Skin, Russell Banks. Dared myself to read it. Pedophile protagonist. Go on, I dare you.
- Skios, Michael Frayn. Hilarious. (I’ve got to stop using that word. It inhibits vocabulary.)
- Beautiful Ruins, Jess Walker. The ruins are people. The past heals the present. Richard Burton, anyone?
- Garden of Evening Mists, Tan Twan Eng. Might be a “the” in there. Beautiful. Got to get my hands on A Gift of Rain. Another “the”?
- Silver: Return to Treasure Island, Andrew Motion. The original = one of my all time favorites. In Motion’s book, for me, things fall apart at the island.
- Night Circus, Elsa Morgenstern. Magic. My daughter refuses to return the book. I’ll have to buy another. One wants to OWN it.
- The Snow Child, Eowyn Ivey. Fairy Tale magic in Alaska. Other daughter bought me a replacement copy. This, too is a book one wants to OWN.
- Telegarph Avenue, Michael Chabon. Michael! Edit out the self-consciously literary narrative riffs, please! Love the blimp.
- Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, Ransome Riggs. Mysterious island, abandoned orphanage, time travel with photos. Oh, yeah.
- Swamplandia, Karen Russell. Threw the book at the wall. Karen: Do not. Abuse. Child. It’s wrong and unnecessary.
- Mr. Penumbra’s 24-hour Bookstore, Robin Sloan. Most recent read. And I felt so…hip…reading it.
Non-Fiction. I didn’t finish reading either of these books, but I’m still quite fond of them and dip in occasionally when I need a wee bit of Paleontology or philosophy to keep me going.
- Horseshoe Crabs & Velvet Worms, Richard Fortey. Passionate seeking of the oldest critters on the planet. You want to climb out onto those rocks by the ocean and eat a cheese sandwich with him.
- Why Does the World Exist? An Existential Detective Story, Jim Holt. I keep trying to wrap my head around Nothing. Holt flirts with my ontological insecurity. Right now, I’m plodding through the Rejectionists.
- Not Quite Reading:
- David Whyte’s “Poetry of Self-Compassion.” He’s in my computer. His voice heals and pierces. Be careful.