That’s right: 19 books. Before anyone calls me crazy let me say: no, I will not (to my dismay) read them all this weekend, but I wish I could. If my body did not require sleep–if my entire world orbited around books–then yes, I probably could finish them. (And I mean all of them.) Anyone who witnessed the further disintegration of my work ethic this week knows.
Academic endeavors were shoved under my bed, buried in the garden, slapped in the face, and pushed down by the weight of every book I read. In consequence, I hurriedly rushed out of math this afternoon. The scent of Shame clung to every part of me as I handed my instructor the exam (intentionally face-down). Quietly I pray for a D, at best. Moving along…
It’s the weekend! It’s Friday night, and I have plenty of books to keep me company. That’s right: I plan to spend my Memorial Day weekend plowing through book after book at rapid pace. Raya, you need professional help. People are starting to think something is wrong, because all I do is read. Constantly, I read.
I will tell you what is wrong. Not reading is wrong. Matrices are wrong and irrelevant to my life in so many ways that I could not care less. The amount of care I possess comfortably sits somewhere in the negatives, and it has no intention of moving up.
No, I’ll tell you what’s going on here: I’m antsy for summer. I am tired of math, life, and math, and I need a break. Reading is solace. Lucky me, I only have a mere three weeks left, but until then: I’m taking advantage this weekend. I will roll and envelope myself in the sweet feeling of doing nothingness this weekend. Nothing but reading.
First books are first: I should have no problem finishing The Book Thief and Teen Angst? Naaah… tonight (the latter being a quick read), and I may tack Mr. Fox to my “why yes I read that” book list tomorrow.
To complete a book challenge by the end of May, I have two more reads planned for this weekend: Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic Treasure Island and the William C. Morris YA Debut Award nominee Between Shades of Gray by Ruta Sepetys!
My personal copy of Treasure Island is moderately-worn and, to its credit, old. Alas: never completely read. I first began Jim Hawkin’s adventurous tale two summers ago. How many pages did I read through before placing it back on my shelf? I can’t tell you. Where is the adventure?! Well, I can’t tell you that either, because I never read the proper amount of pages to find out! Come Saturday or Sunday, however…
I have another batch of books–three more (to be exact), and I’m excited to begin the first:
Lighting is such a rude, fickle thing. At the very top of the stack sits Michael Scott’s The Alchemyst, followed by:
- Starters by Lissa Price
- Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins
- Lips Touch: Three Times by Laini Taylor
- Half World by Hiromi Goto
Unless some of you have managed to escape the craze, everyone should know Catching Fire is the second book to The Hunger Games trilogy. I read Hunger Games last month–a book I had pre-judged as one I would dislike. How wrong was I? A lot wrong, Raya. A lot. I flipped through Hunger Games in under a week, possibly a few days. Near three (or was it four?) in the morning, I read the last page with hot, hot need for book #2. Now, because it was in the early hours I shuffled over to my laptop and searched Google for spoilers.
Why do I look for spoilers when I know all I’ll be left with is the gross aftertaste of disappointment? It brutally wounded my hot, hot need for book #2, because by the time I finished spoil-splurging through Wiki and Google, I learned what happens in book #3 as well. But: lo! After watching Jennifer Lawrence dart around with bow & arrow for 2 hours and 22 minutes, my hot, hot need for book #2 was replenished ten fold.
Also grouped with Collins’ book is Starters by Lissa Price and Lips Touch: Three Times by Laini Taylor. I haven’t a clue what to expect from Price’s book, but I hope it will help feed my YA / fantasy mania. Taylor’s book is not something I would normally consider. The cover illustration presents a girl who I can’t say looks particularly classy, and the title doesn’t help. While I have long since stopped judging book covers, I still eye titles like I can see entire plots in them. By reading a summary, however, the book’s innards* sounds better than what its appearance lets on. Lips Touch: Three Times goes hand-in-hand with the sudden fairy tale fantasy frenzy I’ve been craving. As such, I also have The Alchemyst (the first of six in The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series) and Goto’s Half World.
(*”Innards” is such an unflattering word, but it will do.)
But as you know, that is only one of three book stacks. As for the second:
In continuing my Discworld experience, I have in my possession Equal Rites: only the third of I-lost-count Discworld books. (To be followed, of course, are Mort and Sourcery.)
The rest include:
- Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu
- Bashō’s Ghost by Sam Hamill
- The Blue Fairy Book by Andrew Lang (Didn’t I mention how starving I am for fairy tales?)
- Mad Love by Suzanne Selfors
Who knows when I will work my way to reading these. Their due dates are creeping up and just around the corner. I imagine Mad Love and Tao Te Ching will take little time, but Pratchett is deserving of my attention. He has wit that can’t be glossed over in a haze of speed-reading, and I predict I’ll be forced into returning Lang’s and Hamill’s writing before I set eyes on their books’ first pages. There is always some bitter resentment in returning a library book when I haven’t read it.
Yes, I can check it out again, but have you seen my request list? It doesn’t know how to stop growing.
And now, I present my last and final stack. This lovely bunch was picked up today:
You can barely see it, but the small lad at the top is William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience followed by:
- The Marriage of Heaven and Hell by William Blake
- Blood Red Road by Moira Young
- Hereville: How Mirka Got Her Sword by Barry Deutsch (a graphic novel)
Side note: I think I’ve been in love with William Blake since long before I wrote an essay on him. It was way back when I was still a woe-is-me teen wannabe-poet, spewing angst, and crazy about dead writers–preferably the very old, very dead male kind. (Also: Kate Chopin, but she’s a different story.) My Blake-infatuation has since simmered down considerably, but it might be time for rekindling.
Now if you excuse me, I have some books to read.
Reading like it’s my last day—