I have come to the place on the path where every book I pick up makes me happy. There is no good explanation for this, and yet it is true. I suspect that something in me has eased, because I'm even loving semi-crappy books. They seem friendly and well meaning. Am I going soft? Probably, but in any case I must share, because oh my god, I'd sort of forgotten what a pleasure reading could be, I feel like someone sent me ten pounds of the best chocolates and I'm just moving my way through the room where there are tons of excellent chocolate boxes lying around open, and each one (almost) is delicious.
So! Here you go:
Oh my god, so amazingly interesting and strange and full of things I did not know and am so happy to know now.
I didn't even love the first one, I only liked it a lot. But this one? I loved. LOVED.
I'm not even done with this yet, but the beginning has been so wonderful even if she breaks my heart and doesn't end it well, that's OK, because I read that wonderful beginning.
So strange and sad, and great to read. I am still sad about this. Which I imagine would piss off the author, but there it is.
Oh! Oh! Oh! It was so strange and beautiful. I cannot explain why it affected me, and thank you so much ChrisinNY! I loved this.
Oh how I love a hard-boiled mystery! Even when it's not exactly a mystery! Oh, despite your outmoded and sexist ideas, and your hot muggy descriptions when I'm already hot, how I love you, John D. MacDonald!
So here's the thing that's killing me: there is another one, another book and I cannot remember what it is and it's driving me crazy. Ah well, I have to hope I will remember it, because I think it's what delivered me into this new, excellent world, where I am enjoying everything I read, even books that aren't so great. It's just—it's just such a pleasure!
OK: I've showed you mine. Will you show me yours?