We travel without seatbelts on and live this close to death
"The girls I dream of are the gentle ones, wistful by high windows or singing sweet old songs at a piano, long hair drifting, tender as apple blossom. But a girl who goes into battle beside you and keeps your back is a different thing, a thing to make you shiver. Think of the first time you slept with someone, or the first time you fell in love: that blinding explosion that left you crackling to the fingertips with electricity, initiated and transformed. I tell you that was nothing, nothing at all, beside the power of putting your lives, simply and daily, into each other's hands."
- In the Woods, Tana French
It doesn't take a genius to imagine the sorts of images of fair-haired women in ball gowns and girls, tearful and wild, in jeans that slip into my head when I read those words. Much less the fact that the lines make me hum "Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect."
I felt perhaps I'd focus on the written word though, rather than the usual fannish ramblings. This job has made me crave books; I inhale and devour them as though they give life, and I suppose they do. The printed page can bring animation to long-dead souls and give birth to those that never were, and bring forth thoughts and ideas to the reader's head that might never have been considered before.
Off the top of my head, I've read these books in the past few weeks:
The Memory Game by Nicci French- Much too long for so little pay-off.
Sex with Kings by Eleanor Herman- Enlightening and deliciously dishy.
The Marine's Baby by Rogenna Brewer- Horribly written, but the laughter was worth the dollar paid.
The Duchess by Amanda Foreman- Illuminating, and the sort of book that makes me ache for the wounded, vulnerable people in the world.
Secret Diary of a Call Girl by Belle de Jour- Tucks me in, makes me feel like a kindred soul, and sets sunlight on my face.
The Red Room by Nicci French- Rather weird, with an odd ending.
The Max by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr- Just plain ridiculous, not nearly as good as the other "Max and Angela" books.
In the Woods by Tana French- Exciting, exhausting, and beautifully-written.
Even though I've yet to find a Nicci French novel that matches the obsessiveness I felt while reading Secret Smile, I feel compelled to read every one of French's books. They play into that part of me that meticulously follows certain things, flirt with failed romances, and always allow for just enough danger to set me on edge.
I've been wanting to re-read Marie-Antoinette: The Journey, which I probably will soon, but I've also got another Hard Case Crime novel to knock out, the latest David Sedaris essay collection, Eleanor Herman's second book, Jude the Obscure, a salacious true crime story, and a massive C. S. Lewis tome. I've a feeling tomorrow will find me wandering around downtown though, purchasing more French paperbacks and leafing through I Was Told There'd Be Cake. It's difficult for me to sit still without a book in my hands, or my hands on the keyboard.
My fingers just sort of itch to read now, just as much as they do for me to write, to keep trying to put two screwy words together and come up with something beautiful, or at least something that makes the reader taste the artificial sweetener and salt upon someone's lips.
- In the Woods, Tana French
It doesn't take a genius to imagine the sorts of images of fair-haired women in ball gowns and girls, tearful and wild, in jeans that slip into my head when I read those words. Much less the fact that the lines make me hum "Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect."
I felt perhaps I'd focus on the written word though, rather than the usual fannish ramblings. This job has made me crave books; I inhale and devour them as though they give life, and I suppose they do. The printed page can bring animation to long-dead souls and give birth to those that never were, and bring forth thoughts and ideas to the reader's head that might never have been considered before.
Off the top of my head, I've read these books in the past few weeks:
The Memory Game by Nicci French- Much too long for so little pay-off.
Sex with Kings by Eleanor Herman- Enlightening and deliciously dishy.
The Marine's Baby by Rogenna Brewer- Horribly written, but the laughter was worth the dollar paid.
The Duchess by Amanda Foreman- Illuminating, and the sort of book that makes me ache for the wounded, vulnerable people in the world.
Secret Diary of a Call Girl by Belle de Jour- Tucks me in, makes me feel like a kindred soul, and sets sunlight on my face.
The Red Room by Nicci French- Rather weird, with an odd ending.
The Max by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr- Just plain ridiculous, not nearly as good as the other "Max and Angela" books.
In the Woods by Tana French- Exciting, exhausting, and beautifully-written.
Even though I've yet to find a Nicci French novel that matches the obsessiveness I felt while reading Secret Smile, I feel compelled to read every one of French's books. They play into that part of me that meticulously follows certain things, flirt with failed romances, and always allow for just enough danger to set me on edge.
I've been wanting to re-read Marie-Antoinette: The Journey, which I probably will soon, but I've also got another Hard Case Crime novel to knock out, the latest David Sedaris essay collection, Eleanor Herman's second book, Jude the Obscure, a salacious true crime story, and a massive C. S. Lewis tome. I've a feeling tomorrow will find me wandering around downtown though, purchasing more French paperbacks and leafing through I Was Told There'd Be Cake. It's difficult for me to sit still without a book in my hands, or my hands on the keyboard.
My fingers just sort of itch to read now, just as much as they do for me to write, to keep trying to put two screwy words together and come up with something beautiful, or at least something that makes the reader taste the artificial sweetener and salt upon someone's lips.