I always have three to four good reads stacked on my bedside table, a symbol of the glass-is-half-full part of my nature. It’s unlikely that I will read even one of those books in the time I’ve allotted (usually one week.) To imagine that I could finish all of them is pretty far out there.
But that stack represents more than incautious optimism. It’s my passport, a booklet bound by passion and stamped with memories. The world I first entered as a child always waits between the cover of a good book. (Or even a not-so-good book.)
In this world, words are supreme. Images are created, characters unveiled and plots unwound, without sound or illustration. Words, crafted, invoke emotions and memory, and persuade me to momentarily disregard what I know to be true and accept the premise of the world they create.
This is my current stack:
My Life in France, Julia Child, with Alex Prud’Homme
The City in Which I Love You, poems by Li-Young Lee
The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain, Charles Neider, ed.
What are you reading right now?
Lovin’ my library card,