Sasha > Recent Status Updates

I am strangely unaffected thus far.

On hold, as I lent it to Nash. It wasn't the right time for Iyer anyway. That said, the 29th page: http://sashawantsmore.tumblr.com/post...

Because what the hell, yes?

You will be read to your last page, and returned to my shelves, by this afternoon's end. Goddammit, Simenon.

Fascinating reading, albeit in a one-note delivery. Essentially, the takeaway is: I am not responsible for my actions; evolutionary biology is. I'm still wondering whether that's depressing or not.

Just realized that I haven't come across a lot of good (that is: whole--in craft, in worldbuilding) Filipino dystopic fiction. This one looks promising.

Answering this book at a leisurely pace. A snide voice in my head wonders if this is precisely why this book appeals: "Tell me more about yourself, Sasha, please!"

Proust, I know now, feels like an obligation you don't mind carrying out at all. So, Sasha: Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.

Now I know why I've resisted this book: It seems something I'd grow tired of all too easily.

I've resisted this book, for years. I can't quite articulate why—and I'm likewise at a loss as to why I'm reading this now. So. We'll see.

I needed that break. I also spent the better part of a morning commute trying to figure out where it was that I stopped.

Started this late last night, after the Davis. And, um, I don't quite know how to go about reading this. I don't even know what this I'm reading.

Commence flailing! (I managed to wait six days before starting this, haha. I'm considering it my reward for surviving this week.)

One last try tonight, before I finally put this to rest. Because, although the prose just sings--most of the time, that's about it.

Maybe I'm no longer the kind of girl who reads men like Salter. That's an identity crisis for ye.

Because I have no EQ.

Oops. I've gone and started reading a new book, mostly because of Hate-You-World feels. Anyway: Roland is cheering me up, I'm finding. After a near-lethal encounter with Demon Lobsters, Roland is injured, two fingers of his right hand gone. But our Gunslinger goes: "I jerk off left-handed, at least that' something."

I'M ONLY HALFWAY THROUGH THE TWENTIETH PAGE, YOU GUYS.

I suddenly don't want to read anything I'd listed under Currently Reading. I might be reaching for the second book in the Dark Tower series. Or not. I don't know. I'm book-flaky that way.

I’ve got to hand it to Ford and his lit-boner introduction: I have not, in recent memory, paid this much attention—an almost brittle, why-don’t you-go-ahead-and-impress-me kind of scrutiny —to the author’s prose.

I'm in a world where people say things like, "Robert, your daughter is fantastic. She has the heart of a courtesan."

Nooninooninoo. Now what do I read?

Okay, I have to stop for a bit. Guy just ate some cake and had the attack of the flashbacks and I can't, guys, I just can't right now.

It still hasn't sunk in that he's been nattering on and on about Snoopy. Oh, my heart.

Ah, Proust, you and your prose, your exquisite attention to detail. Challenge accepted.

Hello, my favorite curmudgeon.

Nine pages, and our narrator is only just waking up. But oh-so-marvelously. Amazing, the detail that goes into that liminal spaces between sleep and wakefulness, its many permutations. And of course that in-between is sensuous—of course it is. Nine pages, and Proust has spent all that examining how one wakes up, how the body betrays, how the mind contrives. And there’s more of this to come.

So far, I’ve found Amy completely understandable and cringingly relatable. And if I could crush Nick between my bitter-girl, impatient-at-people-who-fuck-things-up-for-themselves-whether-they-mean-to-or-not, thinned lips—hot damn, I would.

One last look-see through the passages I've flagged. Oh, this unexpectedly breathtaking book. The history! The prose! The badassery of LMG!

I had to stop because someone threw water all over her copy. Because.

Why am I reading eight books simultaneously?