Well look at me. I was going to take a well-earned day off from posting, but then I remembered that every day is a day off for me and do I really need to spend any of these days doing ABSOLUTELY nothing? Or could I just put that off until tomorrow or some other day.
And then as I was wasting time on Facebook looking at pages that I’ve liked in the past but which never ever come up on my news feed, I came across the following interesting thought-provoking stuff.
Plus W mixed me a spiced rum and orange juice. So I’m not completely responsible.
I’m the hundred dollar textbook you caressed with pink and yellow highlighters. Café smudges and coffee spills grace my tree-murdered pages. How long before there’s no one left alive who remembers my name?
You might think, because of the nature of these book related pictures from various Facebook pages, that I have spent my entire Sunday reading. But I haven’t. I’m saving that for tomorrow, day two of two days off. I’m part way through The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt, which is turning out to be a book with no end in sight. Had to take a break.
What I’ve actually been doing today is making myself feel less sad about the fact that there are only two seasons of Downton Abbey available on Netflix by watching The Good Wife instead. I didn’t notice how many seasons there are to get through on that one, but I’ll take a serious stab at getting to the end of them.
It’s a hard life I know, but don’t worry, I’m managing okay.
“We don’t need lists of rights and wrongs, tables of dos and don’ts; we need books, time, and silence. Thou shalt not is soon forgotten, but Once upon a time lasts forever.”
— Philip Pullman
I’d really like to give this book a glowing review because so many people profess to have read it and loved it, calling it witty, satirical, poignant, charming, and delightful fun. But I can’t, because it was none of those things to me. It took me a month to slog through three hundred pages. I couldn’t drum up any emotion for the main character who for some reason or other for me did not ring true. I guess I really don’t care what New York was like in the 1930’s and the story never seemed to be going anywhere. Random people kept popping in and out of her life or disappearing altogether never to be heard from again. It was like reading someones boring journal entries and finally getting to the end and thinking, really? That’s it?
I am definitely in the minority here, and was probably just in a bad mood for a month, so don’t let this deter you from reading other reviews and the book itself. It would be a very colorless reading world if we weren’t all inspired by different things.
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