Found in an old notebook while tidying my flat...

Books I Read: Summer '96

(started beginning of June, 1996)

Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Famous Last Words - Timothy Findley
Another Roadside Attraction - Tom Robbins
The Scarlet Letter - Nathaniel Hawthorne
Prizes - Erich Segal
The Little Drummer Girl - John Le Carre
A Green Desire - Anton Myer
Tess - Katherine Burton
Heiress - Janet Dailey
Watership Down - Richard Adams
Sisters and Strangers - Helen Van Slyke
Moon Shadow - Dawn Stewardson
Butterfly - Kathleen Norris
All The Right Moves - Brenna Tod
Privileged Lives - Edward Stewart
A Ruling Passion - Judith Michael
The Two Towers - J.R.R. Tolkien
The Return of The King - J.R.R. Tolkien
Destination Unknown - Agatha Christie
Sand In The Wind - Kathleen O'Neal Gear

(also listed: Books to Read - "John Irving - Prayer for some guy")

Holiday Reading

In a mere 10 days, I will be on a plane to France. I know! Isn't that exciting? I'm going to Meribel on a skiing trip with a big group of friends.

Well, actually, it's more of a "skiing" trip for me, as I will not be skiing. I may do one day of it, but it's not really my thing.

"But Alice," I hear you say, "what ever will you do with your time then?"

Oh, there's a plan.

Imagine if you will: a chalet in Meribel. Outside, the snow, she is blowing. Inside, the fire, she is roaring. The hot chocolate, she is delicious and chocolatey. Alice, she is lounging on a couch reading a book.

After a day of delicious reading, Alice's friends return from the slopes, they have dinner and then go out and have lots of drinking and dancing fun.

Seriously, it's like the best holiday ever.

I'm currently putting together my reading list for the holiday. I figure it's seven days, so ten books feels about right to me.

Any suggestions? What do you think I need to read?

Books

I'm a book addict. I always have been, and I'm fairly sure I always will be. I buy books. Borrowing doesn't work for me. I need to own them.

My delicious friend Miss Sarah K sent me a birthday present, which I received today. A book - The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop by Lewis Buzbee. I just started reading it, and there on page 9 was the exact reason I buy books.

For the last several days I've had the sudden and general urge to buy a new book. I've stopped off at a few bookstores around the city, and while I've looked at hundreds and hundreds of books in that time, I have not found the one book that will satisfy my urge. It's not as if I don't have anything to read; there's a tower of perfectly good unread books beside my bed, not to mention the shelves of books in the living room I've been meaning to reread. I find myself, maddeningly, hungry for the next one, as yet unknown. I no longer try to analyze this hunger; I capitulated long ago to the book lust that's afflicted me most of my life. I know enough about the course of the disease to know I'll discover something soon.

It's like Lewis Buzbee can see inside my head! That's just how I feel about books.

I just remembered something I hadn't thought of in ages. When I was about 8 or 9, my friend Heather was having a garage sale. She'd asked all of us if we had anything we'd like to donate, and I volunteered a bunch of books I'd already read. When I got home, I remember being overcome with anxiety and stress and just generally freaking out - I needed the books back and I needed them immediately. Fortunately I was of an age where my mom could solve my problems, and she went over to Heather's house and got them back. She might have even bought them back, now that I think about it.

I may be a good 20 years older now, but I still feel the same way about my books.

Long story short, books are awesome. And I need to go book shopping.

Book time!

I have a fabulous and delightful friend who is considering moving to London for a bit. While she will right now remain nameless, due to the fact that this information could accidentally get to her boss and get me in trouble, I think she needs some reading material to help her get prepped for London life.

Any suggestions?

And, don't say Bridget Jones.

Anne Rice = Crazy

I'm not a fan of Anne Rice.

I haven't been for years, not since I read The Witching Hour in the summer of 1993. It's 1,043 pages long and it doesn't end. The ending is a lead up to some crappy book that follows it. Leaving aside my firm belief that all books (or movies) in a series should be able to stand up on their own and not suck, I still had major problems with it. This book was one of the first that inspired me to throw it across the room when I finished it. Thankfully it didn't hit anyone. (Unlike the time Heather Church hit me in the face with a For Better or For Worse collection in the summer after 7th grade. I still have a scar, you know. But that's another story.) Anyway, I vowed then to never read another Anne Rice book. And, I haven't.

So, given my dislike of her and her rambling writing style (which, according to people who have actually read her work in the last 11 years, has gotten much worse), you can imagine how delighted I was to stumble across this, and then this, today.

Anne Rice has gone crazy! How delightful! She hates people who hate her books! I love that!

This may be my favourite bit:

For me, three hunting scenes, two which take place in hotels -- the lone woman waiting for the hit man, the slaughter at the pimp's party -- and the late night foray into the slums --stand with any similar scenes in all of the chronicles. They can be read aloud without a single hitch. Every word is in perfect place. The short chapter in which Lestat describes his love for Rowan Mayfair was for me a totally realized poem. There are other such scenes in this book.

Arrogant much, Anne?

Ah, the public downfall of disliked celebrities. Could anything be more fun?