Stuff I've read

Stephen's and my apartment building has this excellent culture of putting unwanted, but still usable, things at the bottom of the main stairwell. Almost always, you can find an assortment of odds and ends, including books. It's become one of my favourite things about our new home; even though we've not met many of our neighbors, they're the sort of people that are happy to recycle good reading material, and I like that.

This month's book, Sea Glass, was a stairwell find. We were on our way out one Sunday morning when the author's name caught my eye. I've read novels by Anita Shreve previously, and I really enjoy how her writing resonates. So, I picked up Sea Glass, and that was that.

It's a really great book. Sea Glass is set on the cusp of the Great Depression, chronicling the successess and downfalls of a newlywed couple, a mill-worker leading a strike, a woman whose lover left her because he went broke, and a young boy who had to leave school to support his family. Each chapter is narrated by one of these characters, allowing the reader to watch the story take shape from numerous perspectives.

It's not a coming-of-age tale; it's something more like the rise and fall of life, the allure of the perfect love, be it romantic or otherwise, and the way the world caves in on itself when real tragedy darkens your doorstep. Almost Shakespearean in its sadness, Sea Glass is light and heavy at the same time. It's one of those stories where so much is said through the saying of so little, and when it was over, I actually cried.

He thinks that she is beautiful. She isn't classically beautiful and she isn't magazine beautiful either, but she is wife beautiful. 

She finds scraps of celadon and cucumber and jade, specks of pea and powder and acquamarine. She doesn't like the browns, but occasionally she collects a topaz or a tea.

You read a word like massacre and you think, I know what that means. It means the slaughter of innocent people...But then...when it happens to you, when you live the word, you realize that the word itself means nothing. It tells you nothing at all. It doesn't begin to convey the horror, does it?

Stuff I've read

 

The category of favorite books has always been one with which I've struggled, due largely in part to the fact that I love far too many books to pick one that I love most, but there's a good chance that this book is the best book I've ever read.

The President's Hat chronicles the lives of a few different characters who come in contact with a hat that happens to belong to the current president of the Republic of France. It's a beautiful story, weaving together a glorious fiction with real historic events and people, and it was absolutely spellbinding. I didn't even get a chance to take a picture of it, because I sent it home for my parents to read. I read it quickly, but found myself re-reading bits here and there, if only to make it last longer.

It wasn't just that Antoine Laurain's prose is spellbinding, or that he manages to make twists and turns both comforting and breathtaking, or even that the ending is an intricately impossible marriage of not-what-I-expected to makes-perfect-sense. It was more the sense that this story was alive, and by reading it, I became alive.

Every so often, a story wakes you up. It speaks to you, reveals things about your heart and beliefs and dreams, and this was one of those rare books for me. I saw God in The President's Hat, which might sound utterly ridiculous, but the idea that our imaginations and make-believes and what-ifs are intrinsically tied to the reality surrounding us felt absolutely transcendent and holy.

You have to, have to, have to read this.

Stuff I've read

This book, one that I finished in six days, one that I pored over every chance I got, one that has made April a month for more than one book, was one of the best I have ever read.

The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles, a French novel only recently translated into English, centers around the lives of two sisters. One, a scholar; the other, a trophy wife. Both women feel that their lives are lacking, but neither is sure where she'll find what she's looking for. And so one writes a novel and the other gets the credit and, to put it bluntly, all hell breaks loose. There are side stories and minor characters and things that don't tie up quite neatly at the finish, which might account for the mixed reviews I've read for Katherine Pancol's novel. But for me, it was spellbinding. It was normalcy, enlightened. Flawed, certainly, but aren't we all?

Sometimes, you buy and book and it's a really great find. At first glance you think that there's nothing about this world, these characters, this creation, that you relate to. As the story weaves on, though, you find yourself hidden behind every turn, and it's sort of miraculous. This book did it for me. Just, everything.

To find yourself where you never thought to look. What a treasure.

"I'm starting to sound like a bad romance novel, she thought. I have to get a grip on myself."

Stuff I've read

In January, I made a promise to myself (and consequently, the actual effort) to read more. With the holidays lasting more than halfway through the month, I had ample spare time to eat up new stories, but February got a little busier. Truth be told, I only managed to finish one novel last month, but it was good enough to hold its own.

Mother of Pearl details the intricacies of growing up, whether you're a white adolescent girl who hates her mother or a middle-aged African American man who's realizing he's fallen in love (and no, it's not a creepy love saga). Mother of Pearl is set in Mississippi, in the 50's, and the story is wrought with the delicate issues of civil rights, true love, and the friendships that can spring up as a result of either. My mom actually brought this book with her when she visited me back in November and left it for me, so not only was it an exemplary work, but I also get to share my appreciation of it with someone near and dear to my heart.

Don't be fooled by the Oprah sticker on the front; this book is for keeps. It's both hard to put down and hard to handle, and I found myself setting aside half hour periods to read a few chapters slowly, gritting my teeth over the heartbreaking moments and falling in love with the characters throughout.

“Running to catch up, feeling like he was in a constant state of chasing a shadow, he felt a drop of rain hit him square on the back of the neck. The weight of it so heavy it felt like a rock."

Stuff I've read

I grew up reading. From summer reading lists to required school texts to the latest whatever that sparked my interest, I devoured them as if they were my daily bread. Like most people, though, somewhere between college essays and scholarly journals, I lost my taste for words.

I missed it. In a deep, strange way, I missed the sense of home I'd always found in books. And so I vowed to read more and to write more and to enjoy it more. It was difficult, though. I found myself daunted by the responsibility of reading and consequently guilt-ridden when I failed. I needed a new approach.

Somewhere between moving to Australia and the beginning of 2014, my perspective changed. I discovered I genuinely missed setting aside time during the day to sit quietly and take in the voice of someone else. I started reading again, little by little, and as the new year approached, I decided that I would try my hardest not to start new books until I was finished with current ones.

So far, so good. So far this year, I've read three books. The first, an enormously marvelous novel that left me nearly in tears and reeling with appreciation. I'm still thinking about it, three weeks later. The latter two were simpler books, easy to take in in bits and pieces during swim lessons or on the beach with my friends. Now I've moved on to a history of the Tour de France, and I'm hoping to finish by the end of the month. My list of books to read is growing at a ridiculous pace, documented by pictures and journal entries, and the thought of walking into a store and buying a book rather than adding it to a list is almost too exciting to bear.

Here's the thing about reading: It's not so much about what you read as the mere fact that you're doing it. Yes, I prefer classics to young adult books, but I shamelessly read all of the Twilight books during high school, between things like Let the Great World Spin and The Patron Saint of Liars. My taste has evolved over the last several years, but I find myself returning to my old favorites time and again, soaking them in delicately and desperately. New books smell divine, but old ones smell like home.

What I've Read This Year:
Tinkers by Paul Harding
Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan
Dear Girls Above Me  by Charlie McDowell