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Thursday, December 16, 2004

 

Cruddy.

I just finished a great book called Cruddy, by Lynda Barry. I am strange with books: I either love them and devour them, with intense marathon reading sessions, or they absolutely don't speak to me at all, and sit gathering dust on my bookcase. Or, since my bookcase ran out of room long ago, they sit on my nightstand, or on the shelf of my clothes closet where I store books in the "to-read" queue. This queue is so long, and the likelihood of me finding a book I enjoy has become so slim, that a few years ago I boldly announced to my husband's family - who like to give books more than any other kind of gift - that I did not want any more books, thank you very much. Saying this to this particular group of people was like saying "I have horns coming out of my head," and I think I especially puzzled my father-in-law, who is a voracious reader and can't quite figure out how this woman who called herself an English major has read so few of the classics, and shows such limited interest in books generally. I should explain to him one of these days that what drew me to the English department was less a love of reading than a love of ideas. (If I ever actually tell people about this blog, then I guess I just did explain it to him. I'm still getting the hang of this.) Anyway... the last book I loved was Housekeeping, by Marilynne Robinson. I loved how true it was to the landscape of inner life. There, proof for my father-in-law: a sentence like that couldn't have come out of anyone but an English major, right?? :)

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