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Books I Am Idiotically Reading Right Now

The idiocy in the title refers to the fact that my brain refuses to focus on one book, BUT I am currently in three book groups, so this is at least partially not entirely my fault. Unless you count joining three groups as a fault. Which it should NOT be.

Right now I am reading:

Villette, Charlotte Bronte. But you all knew that. I honestly do not think I'd be able to finish this one on my own, no matter how much I might exclaim over it. It's one of those works of art where it seems very important, but I do not look to it for pleasure reading.

How Jesus Became God, Bart Ehrman. I mean. I disagree with Mr Ehrman thus far, but he makes some historical observations that I ACCEPT. Because historical records make me.

Facing Love Addiction, Pia Mellody. My pastor has the young ladies at church reading this. I started out going "psh" and then I was all "YES YES EXACTLY." So. First self help book is deemed helpful.

bird by bird, Anne Lamott. Yes, yes, everyone loves this one and it's the greatest. Someone gave me a copy a couple years ago and I'm finally getting to it. And I love it and it's the greatest.

Hold Still, Sally Mann. I love this. I don't know anything about Cy Twombly, so I'm struggling through the current section I'm on, but Sally Mann, you are an excellent writer and I guess I should look at more of your photographs.

How to Grow Up, Michelle Tea. Have we talked about how much I love Michelle Tea? I will read anything she writes. And am close to having read all her books. SO VERY CLOSE. This is her newest one. It's a memoir, like most of them, but she somehow keeps having new things to say. I could read her writing alllllll day.

Thérèse Raquin, Émile Zola. Ugh. I like the opera for this one so much, but I'm only three chapters from the end and it's taking forever because every damn sentence makes you Ponder the Uselessness of Being. Damnit, Zola.

The Celestial Railroad and Other Stories, Nathaniel Hawthorne. I'm considering not finishing this, TBH. Hawthorne's kinda hit or miss, and if the first story's like the rest, I'm just gonna wanna deck him the entire time. The first story ('Roger Malvin's Burial') is full-on ridiculouspants. Two soldiers in the 1700s are struggling home from a battle -- one's an older guy, and the other is the man who's engaged to Older Guy's daughter. Older Guy says to leave him to die in the woods, but to come back and bury his body. Engaged Guy reluctantly says ok, BUT THEN NEVER COMES BACK. And his whole life is cursed and finally he, his wife and son are destitute and in those same woods and Engaged Guy accidentally shoots his son on the exact same spot where he left Older Guy to die. Hey. Hawthorne. No.

So that's too many, right? I think that's too many. But you need different ones for different moods. Like how I almost never ever want to read Thérèse Raquin, but then maybe there's a day when French depressing stuff sounds like the best. I haven't encountered that day yet, but it's probably hovering around somewhere out there. 

I'll find it. Someday.


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