Reading Nina George’s The Little Paris Bookshop
Nothing distills complex, at times ambivalent, at times frustrating, at times enchanting emotional responses quite like a GIF. Am I right?
Let’s begin! Continue reading “French Literature and me, in GIFs”
I could live the rest of my life quite happily without ever, ever again hearing the phrase guilty pleasure applied to one’s reading choices.
What bothers me is, it constructs false binaries: pleasure or enrichment, entertainment or education, fun or value.
As an academic, I’ve seen how these binaries can taint the idea of pleasure, as if feeling happy or good is somehow unworthy or lacking in value. If we’re not suffering, we’re probably not being challenged enough, or working hard enough, or smart enough to understand that we don’t understand.
No.
We can enjoy books and still be smart about them. We can enjoy books and still be rigorous with them. Now I think about it, don’t we enjoy books because we find value in them? Continue reading “Reading pet peeve #2: The phrase guilty pleasure”
If you’re a mom who has ever been in a book club with other moms (especially moms of children your child is friends with), this scenario may ring familiar: We get together to talk about the book. This lasts for a solid 12 – 17 minutes. The ensuing two hours of conversation are devoted to discussing our children.
To be clear: I’m not knocking this. It’s only natural since our children are fascinating, as are their experiences, their challenges, their relationships. Literature can help us work through and better understand all of the above, which is why we thought to start the book club in the first place! In honor of Mother’s Day, and in the spirit of reading as self-exploration, how about a list of book club books tailor made for moms?
I realize my list is slanted by my suburban, middle class mother experience. I would love to hear suggestions for further and broader reading in the comments. Continue reading “Book club books for moms”
By the time I moved to Connecticut, I had already made a habit of reading Charles Dickens’s “A Christmas Carol
The decision to commit to rereading it every year began the snowy winter we lived in a one-story cottage dating to the mid-18th century. It had a huge picture window overlooking the backyard, which had a creek running through it and, on the opposite bank, a nature preserve. In the living room, a gigantic stone fireplace (about the size of the studio apartment I had once lived in) dominated one wall and featured a cooking arm dating to the colonial period. Continue reading “Rereading “A Christmas Carol” at Christmas Time”
Since Stephen Mitchell’s 2011 translation of the The Iliad
Four years after purchasing Mitchell’s translation and reverently placing it on my bookshelf, I finally got around to the task of reading it. Turns out, I wasn’t so off the mark with my initial assessment. Also: It’s one of the saddest books I’ve ever read, and an absolute must read for anyone who wants to understand the human condition.
You know that feeling that comes over you when you read words so perfectly, exquisitely arranged, into sentiments that ring so familiar, with insight into the human condition that cuts so deep? And you ascend into such a deep state of bliss that you feel it’s entirely possible wings will burst out of your should blades and carry you up, up, up?
Or maybe you’ll just levitate, like Uncle Albert in Mary Poppins, no wings required?
This is how I’ve been feeling lately about Charles Dickens. Continue reading “5 Times Charles Dickens Gave Me Fairy Wings”
