So I think I’m reading at least twenty books right now. Some Maria Tatar stuff on fairy tales. The Gift: Imagination and the Erotic Life of Property, which is nowhere near as sexy but far more tantalizing intellectually that it might sound from the title. Then I’m reading Ted Kooser’s book on poetry writing. Plus I just finished The Golden Compass in anticipation of the movie. And that just scratches the surface of the ever more precarious pile of things beside my bed.
And the best part of all of these things is that no matter what I read it seems to connect to something else I’m reading. It’s great. It’s like books have synapses that fire between them, each book a neuron. It’s beautiful. Happy Reading!