Sasha > Recent Status Updates

Dammit. I am liking it very much, so far. I do not know myself anymore, I really don't.

A review describes Midori thusly: "The epitome of manic pixie dream girl—completely crackers. One minute she’ll be shunning you for two weeks for not saying hello to her, the next she’ll be dragging you see some X-rated filth and practically trying to hump your leg off." Great.

I AM SECRETLY READING THIS BOOK BECAUSE OF REASONS.

I can't believe how slow-going this has been for me. The nutty-ness—a hilarious romp!, everyone's been calling it—only evokes this face---> (-_-). Something might be wrong with me; this may not be the right time to read this? Ugh, idk. I'll persevere until the weekend.

Picked up Gillian Flynn's first two books because I so enjoyed the psychological brutality I was subjected to in GONE GIRL. Sigh.

Not going to think about work because I will read. Not going to think about work because I will read. Not going to think about work because I will read. Not going to think about work because I will read. Not going to think about work because I will read. Not going to think about work because I will read.

"(Finland is a famously introverted nation. Finnish joke: How can you tell if a Finn likes you? He's staring at your shoes instead of his own.)" — BRB, folks, moving to Finland.

Lately, been having too many bad days as a "quiet person in a loudmouth world"—and I'm pretty certain that's why this book, thus far, feels like a really really really fuzzy hug.

Holy, holy, holy amazeballs. Halfway through the second paragraph of the goddamned introduction, I get a little pissed off that this introduction won't be going on forever.

"Human can surprise you sometimes." • Am glad the ones in this book did. And just in the nick of time. Sigh.

That is: The point where I just have to realize that, contrary to my original plan, this book just possibly isn't the best book to read when one's been hankering to restore one's faith in humanity.

AUGH WHY ARE YOU SO ADORABLE. AND THERE'S NO BABY ELEPHANT IN SIGHT JUST YET. STOP BEING ADORABLE, JUST STOP IT.

Meg Huxtable is precisely what she fears herself to be: Dull. And desperation does not make a dashing Duncan. Come on, Madame Balogh, pick it up!

Okay, then, kids: Time to read.

There's a different mood and tone to each of the books. This one seems rather intent on impressing upon me the gravity of a war against the Authority. The wonder remains, however. Of course, of course.

Reuniting with Pullman, after a week-long wait. Hello, fine Saturday.

Here we go!

The problem is, of course, when you can't still your mind long enough for the rest of her stories. Munro requires a different mindset; you have to be ready for her.

There's always this grace with Munro's stories, borne (I'm whimsical enough to think) of how her characters will themselves to remain still under duress. The illusion of grace, then. In the face of some keen shame, an unforeseen mortification, a half-expected disappointment. And that illusion, it appears, is enough.

A friend of mine gave this to me, after I announced that I held a deep loathing for anyone in possession of the reissue, for as long as I didn't have one. So: YAY TO BIBLIOPHILIC THREATS.

Whenever I remind myself to sit still and to pay attention, it's always wondrous.

Just finished reading a story that progressed as follows: Upstanding man (successful lawyer, expectant father) slips into a peep show, armed with five tokens. A girl invites him to touch. The panel slides down and our upstanding man decides that, yes, he will touch, yes, thank you. The panel slides up. His rabbis from his childhood greet him. Nekkid.

Basically: Four for you, Englander. You go, Nathan Englander.

I picked it up almost idly this morning, because it was either this or Alain de Botton. Reviews from friends are dismal, but I can't rid myself of the glowing rec I once read, about how Wolitzer should stand alongside Franzen re domestic shiznit. Sigh.

It had a map! An historical romance novel with a map! Hee.

Done with the first story, the title story, and all I can do at the moment is chant, "See? I knew you were good, I knew it!" over and over and over.

Managed to read just the first sixteen pages on the train to work this morning, and I already got the "Mmm, good book" shivers.

Feeling very un-Sontag these days. Reading this book without the requisite openness to soaring prose, even focus and intelligence (!), feels like an insult to both the book and me. Sigh.

It's a less crazy Irving this time around, but I'm looking forward to the same brand of generosity I've always relied on him for.

Why am I at my desk? Why aren't I in bed, body curled around book? WHY IS IT SO BRIGHT DAMN YOU. #dayaftereasterbreak

It's difficult going, but I'm almost glad for that.