I've read several books this year that were fine. Serviceable. Some even contained elements to admire. I wasn't mad at them. They were fine. But I don't read to read books that are fine. I read to be moved, to be entertained, to be inspired, to be impressed, to be wound around unexpected corners of … Continue reading When Books are Just Fine
I have a brilliant friend whose bailiwicks include mid-twentieth century fiction and depictions of madness. Shirley Jackson, unsurprisingly, is a favorite. The only things I'd read of hers before were "The Lottery," (#iconic) and The Haunting of Hill House (1959), which I read as a teenager and barely remembered. But inspired by my friend, I … Continue reading Mid-Century Macabre: Shirley Jackson and Josephine Tey
Season one of Fleabag knocked me over, picked me up, and then broke me into a thousand pieces. It seemed semi-criminal that something so awkward and cruel and heart-breaking should also be so funny. It deals with grief and regret and being the family scapegoat and making terrible decisions and punishing yourself because you've done … Continue reading Going off Book: Fleabag
We're a strange group of people—us readers, we bookish types. And writers know which side their bread is buttered on. Without readers, writers would have little reason to exist, which is why I've often felt that there's something a bit obvious or pander-y about books-about-books. Reading a book about the delights of reading, being a … Continue reading Do Books Matter?