Bad Bad Books

I love to read. It’s my escape from humdrum reality. Sometimes I encourage myself to read the classics and I’ve recently developed an appreciation for Jane Austen. However, I do not ever see my downright loathing of James Joyce changing.

I have a tendency to find an author and devour their books. Sometimes, if they are a true favorite I savour them and hide their books until I’m desperate for something I know I’ll love. Recently, I seemed to have developed the worst literary luck. I was at the used book store and since I enjoy horror and fantasy the owner suggsted Elizabeth Hand’s Glimmering. It was an apopolyptic novel of garbage. It’s truly rare that I don’t finish a book, it’s even more rare that I throw one away.

Discouraged by Glimmering, I turned to an author I have recently enjoyed Philippa Gregory. I picked up Wideacre. As an aside, if anyone knows whether it is pronoucned wide-acre or widicker, I would really appreciate this information. For some reason the depravity of the main character bothered me, terribly. I felt dirty reading it and was torn. Should I put the book away or finish it as quickly as possible? I finally decided I would skim the remainder of the book so there were no unanswered questions to fester in my brain.

Well, the two year old is awake, back to mommy duty.


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