Sasha > Recent Status Updates

My friend Petra said, "On the List of Books that Make Sense No Matter What, THE PHANTOM TOLLBOOTH will always be number one." And I can't agree more.

Really gets at my nerves that this isn't in Title Case, dear Goodreads. Bow.

The narrator's just said that three years ago, she turned down a proposal because she was in love w/ Sherlock Holmes at the time. THIS IS MY KIND OF BOOK, YOU GUYS.

When I was a child, I read this kid's encyclopedia that talked about how the sun would burn itself up, how all life would suffer as a consequence, how everything would subsequently perish. "In a billion years" was not a consolation. I carried that knowledge inside me for so long, and I couldn't tell anyone because they were supposed to already know.

And I was planning to read this book to a kid.

Reading Gogol's begun to feel like doing penance for past sins committed. Why do you insist on telling me the life story of every piece of furniture of every damned man our hero comes across?

Perhaps a shift in point of view is in order. That is, to stop expecting anything to happen. Take the extensive narratives of every bleeping body as they come, with no anticipation that it'll all have a point soon.

Surreal and baffling, but strangely engrossing.

I began this several months ago, but set it aside because I couldn't get into Jon Ronson's voice. Now, there's a pressing need to assess whether the people around me are psychopaths or not, so here we are.

Oops. Anyway. I've been dipping in and out of this book, subsection by subsection. I've decided to fuck it all and go ahead and read Arthur Schopenhauer, that wonderfully grumpy old man.

I think I may be having Alain de Botton fatigue.

I think I may be having Alain de Botton fatigue.

Putting on hold because I'm not quite furious at the moment. Just tired. Very tired.

Okay. Gogol and I are getting along. I thought this was going to be doom-and-gloom Russians, but, well, it's some funny and piercing and uber-judgmental narration re doom-and-gloom ridic Russians running around.

Why are you my favorite grumpy ol' man, Franzen?

Always fun, Dawkins. Still a grumpy old man. I've been taking this book very slowly, savoring what'd usually be a mind-numbing cascade of information.

Ah, progress at last. Infinitesimal progress, but I've got a pinch of pages behind me. Gogol's fun. And strange.

This has been moldering by my bed [that is, on the floor] for two weeks now. Why do you refuse to let me read you, book?!

I have become a more unwieldy fount for useless information. It is amazeballs.

Because of all the leftover feels from watching The Walking Dead last night, I unearthed the Whitehead from TBR Mountain.

That ol' cover gives me the best kind of giggles. I'm reading the prettier -- albeit more staid -- reissue, which is a godsend. I should just go ahead and buy Mary Balogh's whole backlist, to keep me company when I am old and gray and full of sleep.

Well, this is ridiculously engrossing. A thief, a community of book collectors, the draw of rare books. Just fascinating.

That's an inaccurate number; I've been reading this on and off, essays in no particular order. Except, maybe, familiarity of theme or subject matter. Anyway. Franzen's mind remains for me a wondrous place. He's my favorite grump, he is. I still believe, though, that I'll never get to read his treatises on birds. Gah, birds. I had enough of that in FREEDOM, hahaha.

This is the second time I've tried to read this book, and we just refuse to bond. I struggle to understand why. There's a richness, I suppose, that's lacking. Or I find it too noncommittal, the tone? Ugh. But the Norse myths! Sigh. I'll return to it one day. Third time, perhaps, would be the charm.

I seem to be in a scrape, not unlike with the Franzen book. I don't know Grossman at all to care for his views on reading and writing. But I soldier on.

This, I foresee, is going to be a problem, haha. There's none of the I know exactly what you mean that characterized my madness for his How to Be Alone . This is going to be more of a challenge than I first wagered.

I'm going to read a collection of essays which prominently feature birdwatching and David Foster Wallace--two things I know absolutely nothing about it. Bring it on.

Some of the references are zooming right past my head, I am fairly certain.

Rather irresponsibly read to my heart's content last night. The book's cheeky and suspicious, and already it reminds me of the parts I loved best in Doyle's novel

aving just finished The Hound of the Baskervilles a couple of days ago, this seemed like a perfect fit. Reading begets reading, after all--and I do have a crush on Monsieur Bayard.

Put on hold because Nash stole my little book. Heh.

I've hit a new Low of Dorquerie: I've been making a list of fonts to download.