books that have been moved from their little piles on the floor next to my place of sleeping:
as yet unread -
rohinton mistry such a long journey
eric clapton the autobiography
brothers grimm complete fairy tales
germaine greer the change: women, ageing and the menopause
mark seymour thirteen tonne theory
naomi wolf promiscuities
read already but is talking to me again -
tim winton the riders
dipped into -
his holiness the dalai lama the essence of happiness
the dalai lama's book of wisdom
cormac mc carthy blood meridian
charles bukowski the most beautiful woman in town and other stories
books i have left beside the bed in one pile:
gregory david roberts shantaram
a.b. facey a fortunate life
nancy friday the power of beauty
geraldine brooks year of wonders
buddhism for mothers by i can't be bothered going back in there to see.
the one that i've been reading mostly recently is the nancy friday one. this was interrupted by reading the twilight series, in tandem with princess. i've also been reading the papers, magazines, that trashy kind of stuff. and going in and out of a fortunate life and shantaram.
it's like i can't settle down and read happily like i used to. i feel i'm in between books, and it's a disturbing feelings. i can't be happy enough if i haven't got a book that calls me from the other room. and happy enough is all i am hoping for, really. it's all anyone can hope for. forget blissful. forget great, or wonderful. if you can be happy enough, you're doing pretty damn well i reckon.
tonight i am looking forward to starting year of wonders. i hope it keeps me. i feel like i'm kind of going off fiction - well, not going off but i feel i've almost had my fill. does that sound crazy? i turn towards non-fiction, because fiction seems to disappoint these days as much as it delights.
must go and sew some buttons back onto a cushion. it probably won't end well.
slightly jaded reader with sore feet