I can’t tell you when I last put a book down for real. So as not to finish it and start something else.
Wait..ok, I can. Bill Clinton’s autobiography. And the Alison Weir about Mary Queen of Scots. And that other one about Queen Victoria’s death.
But I am going back to those. Every single one. Someday.
I read five or six chapters of Alice Sebold’s book, The Almost Moon, and was so disgusted that I dropped it. I am not going to finish it. It is going straight to the pile of donations for the library book sale.
What went wrong here?
Nevermind. This is not worth lamenting. I have got to stop choosing material based on what all the books clubs are reading.
But you know, I really chose it because I read Sebold’s first two books – The Lovely Bones and Lucky, the memoir – and enjoyed them both. My to-be-read bookcase is filled with material that I chose because I liked the author’s other books. Ann Patchett, Solzhenitsyn, Ward Just…and oh, my. So much Philip Roth.
I am disillusioned.
So I pulled Raymond Chandler off the shelf. Should’ve done that in the first place.