How I am with books

It’s frustrating. When I find the book I want I crack it open like to devour it demanding tell me all your everything right now the juicy bits the stuff the meat the what I’m here for. And once I’ve read that part ravenous and quick so I’m dizzy, I’m done and the rest is a let down a slough a mindless turning of pages to say I’ve read the whole thing because that is what you are supposed to do. An unsatisfying process, most of it anyways. I want to sit down, open up, fall in, slowly, with restraint, reading into and between, absorbing. But that is not how my mind works. It’s not a ballad, it’s a wrecking ball.

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I’m completely and utterly in love with the cover, mostly because it looks like part of the fall line from Madewell. Or a book that a Wes Anderson character would be reading. It’s totally hipster’d out and I love it. The type set is relaxed, yet classic. The yellow border slightly unsteady. The X is ominous and sexual.

I like the way Emily Cheever reviews J. K. Rowling’s new book’s cover.

locked out

 

I finished Carson McCullers's The Heart is a Lonely Hunter this weekend. I had trouble getting into this book until the end and found myself only really interested in the sections about Mick. Something changes at the end though. The writing becomes more lyrical and the characters more vulnerable. There are some beautiful passages. This is my favorite:

 

But now no music was in her mind. That was a funny thing. It was like she was shut out from the inside room. Sometimes a quick little tune would come and go—but she never went into the inside room with music like she used to do. It was like she was too tense. Or maybe because it was like the store took all her energy and time. Woolworth’s wasn’t the same as school. When she used to come home from school she felt good and was ready to start working on the music. But now she was always tired. At home she just ate supper and slept and then ate breakfast and went off to the store again. A song she had started in her private notebook two months before was still not finished. And she wanted to stay in the inside room but she didn’t know how. It was like the inside room was locked somewhere away from her. A very hard thing to understand."

 

Now, I know why I picked this book up. This is exactly what I have been thinking about and fretting about for quite a while. I keep telling myself I'll find time—but I rarely do. I haven't written anything new for over a month. Tear.

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