On my bed side table
Okay, so I have not made much progress on The Kite Runner
, I must admit, because I got sidetracked by agreeing to write a review of this
book, which is awfully slow. Sounds like it would be good but it's not my cuppa tea. Must finish this week, though. Sigh.
Meanwhile, my lovely sister read Jane Eyre
this month (yee haw!) and then picked up Lolita
and has been raving about it. Finally! Someone I can talk to (besides my lit friends) about how fabulous Lolita is.
It's almost impossible to convince someone that a book about pedophilia (among other things) is fabulous. It's as if someone would tell me to read a book about rape from the rapist's point of view because it was great literature.
Yeah, right. No. No. I don't think so.
But Lolita is a beautiful, funny, heartbreaking book.
Then I suggested to my sister that we read some classics together. Madame Bovary
is on the docket. Somehow, after 60 literature classes and three degrees, I have not read it yet. I must finish my book for the review assignment before I pick up Bovary.
I picked up The Meaning of Wife
last week at the library. Don't know when the heck I will find time to read it, but it's fun.
Oh, and I always manage to find time to read part of The New Yorker
every week. I was reading the Summer Fiction issue last night. Some good stuff.
I love the fact that Ed and I both adore reading The New Yorker, yet we are generally drawn to totally different articles each week, with some exceptions. It's so revealing about our marriage and about us as individuals--how we can love the same thing(s), but for totally different reasons.
Just so telling.