So firstly, I saw the new Harry Potter movie yesterday. (Hey, even people without expendable cash should go out once in a while.) Perhaps it is partly the hype in the store about the book coming out next Friday, perhaps I’ve just been so long without seeing a movie on anything other than this little computer screen…but whatever it was, I would just like to state for the record that this was the best movie yet. We were both left (Jesse and I) with nagging feeling for particular favorite scenes of ours that never made the cut, but I thought the general sweep of the movie was in the right sort of direction. Okay, enough about Harry Potter and all that.
I am moved in. Yesterday I got my internet hooked up (the cable plug would be the only plate hidden behind heavy furniture – i.e. my Ethan Allan bookshelf from my dad’s parents) and took the endish of the book boxes out. Moving has only served to further my reading. With no internet, I began devouring books with some amount of abandon…although sometimes somewhat haphazardly and indiscriminately. I have read scraps of a lot of books recently, because it’s hard to escape that when you unpack box after box of books. I read snatches from children’s books I haven’t opened in years, spot-read Jane Eyre and The Hobbit and even my Oxford Classical Dictionary. But I’ll admit, I’ve read some new ones too.
Flower Children, by Maxine Swann – *finished*
The End of the Alphabet, by CS Richardson – *finished*
The Thirteenth Tale: a novel, by Diane Setterfield – *finished* – While I have things to say about all of the above, I’m going to cut myself short and only comment on the last one. Do you remember when you were younger and you couldn’t stop reading a book because you might miss something? You know that feeling when you put down a book at night and dream about it, because you don’t know what’s going to happen to your favorite character? Then maybe you are familiar too with the way that first infatuation with reading fades. You fail to be surprised at the twists and turns of plots, and while you are happy and content reading them, there is no adrenaline rush of uncertainty when you turn the page. I couldn’t put this book down. I went to bed last night because my eyes hurt too badly to read anymore, and I finished it this morning before I showered. Strange? Yes. Gothic? Yes. But very very very well written and stunningly beautiful, much like the Jane Eyre which is woven deeply into the story’s fabric. I strongly recommend for those fanciers of Bronte’s dark work.