The time between Christmas and the start of school in January is a kind of seasonal lockdown for me. The best time to get buried in a book.
Hilary Mantel died this past week. I’m sad for all the wonderful books she’ll never write. And sad we’ll never be able to take tea together.
I always feel recalled to life in September. As if real life has been stalled all summer. And cooler weather kicks life back into gear again.
It’s been all drama all the time around here lately. Family drama, real and literary. And sometimes just drama.
In Sarah Winman’s beautiful novel Still Life, all roads lead to Florence. For me too this week, since I could not bear for this book to end.
This week I’ve been grumbling about spring and reading some great books. Reading. Grumbling about spring. More reading.
I think we often dismiss deceptively simple books as “light reads.” Books which are perceptive, captivating, and even life-altering,
Reading can feel like coming home to me. Where we listen to stories, and tell our own stories. As we seek to know ourselves. And each other.
I have a dream of reading round the fire with all my book-loving friends, real and virtual. And then sipping wine and talking about books.
I’m finding lots of solace this week, my friends. Must have been writing about it last week that meant I’m up to my eyeballs in it this week.
Join me at any of the sites below to continue the conversation.