The Loves of My Life are My Favorite Books

“Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry.”
Mark Strand

This is a bit of a departure from what I've been posting here for, well, to be honest, the last year or so. I don't know what happened to the Things of Happiness, but you know. Sometimes things peter out. So in the spirit of posting about things besides outfits, this is a post about my soulmates—books.

There is nothing I love as much as a book. I love the covers, the pages, bookshelves and bookmarks. I got a kindle for Christmas, and I do not find that this strange object has destroyed the 'real thing' at all for me. I am delighted with it. I can carry around all of my favorite books with me at all times, losing my place is near impossible, and I love highlighting sections to keep in my little clippings folder. If anything, the kindle has increased my book buying habits because if I love a book I read on there, I'll go buy a hard copy of it to place lovingly on my bookshelf.

And so, here are a few books who have (I talk to and about them like they are people—these strange, silent friends who break my heart) burrowed their way into my life in the past few months:


St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves, Karen Russell
This book made the rounds about a year back—I think—and it seemed all the bloggers in this little niche were talking about reading it, or wanting to read it. My resistance was pointless. With a title like that it was only a matter of time before I snatched this little beauty up, and I've hardly put it down since then. I love these stories, they're so strange, magical, and at times a little bit horrifying (at others, heartbreaking). I wish I had written them (I think one of the blurbs on the back of the books says this, so I can't be the only one!). I think I've read the stories a dozen times, some even more. If I remember correctly, this was one of the first books I read in the past year-and-a-half that reminded me why I love reading. Maybe it's early still, considering the rest of my life, but I suspect this is a book of stories that is really quite important to me. A few weeks ago I learned that the author, Karen Russell, is coming to my school for The Writer's Institute. It's only in a week or so, and I cannot wait! I am so thrilled to bits, I might explode. In the meantime, I will sit in the corner and read it over again, while eyeballing my penny-loafers praying to be chewed.


Pretty Monsters, Kelly Link
I was looking for something that would satisfy my appetite for strange short stories with an element of the magical. It's hard, because I knew the kinds of books and stories I wanted were out there somewhere (essentially I was looking to read more of the first listed above), but finding them seemed and impossible task. I almost would rather not read a book at all that ends up being a disappointment, and so it took a good week or so of hemming and hawing on my part before I snatched this one up. I think I read the description of it on Amazon and the review 47 times. This was unnecessary, because I loved it. The stories were also strange, magical, occasionally frightening, and at times hilarious. The only problem is that I finished it, and while I can read it again, it's never quite the same as the first time.


Of Bees and Mist: A Novel, Erik Setiawan
After Pretty Monsters, I was bereft. I had gone through re-reading everything I already knew I loved, and then read that book, and still hungered for more. Thankfully, a tumblr-friend came to my rescue, leaving this curious title and a a recommendation in my ask box. After reading the description on Amazon I hadn't a doubt in my mind that this was exactly the book, or the kind of book, I was looking for. Not to mention, I love bees (I have a secret desire to keep bees and wear that crazy outfit) and also, I love mist. I read it in just over twenty-four hours, devouring its pages in a mad rush, speed-reading whole sections and being totally heartbroken thinking about the characters every moment of the day. The book isn't without it's faults—at moments I wanted to punch the same oft-used adjectives in their little font-faces—but somehow that hardly matters. It was a book I was happy to become swept up in, like I used to with books when I was younger, to be absorbed into it's universe so much that it seemed tragic to me that I could not literally be a part of it, living it (even though the events in it are horribly).

I have also recently signed up for a Shelfari account. Hopefully I'll keep up with it, and eventually I'd like to have all my books up there, but we'll see how long motivation for that lasts.