Last night, drowsy with a suppressed but not vanquished cold and the OTC generic medication I'd taken to suppress it, I tried yet another of the thousands (literally) of novels downloaded to my long-suffering Kindle. Two or three sentences into the narrative, my sensibilities rebelled at the combined insult of slovenly grammar and immature style. I pressed the tiny button to retun to the main menu screen, then slid the device back into its faux suede sleeve. On the verge of self-pitying tears, over both the annoyance of my illness and the disgrace of the chosen novel, I turned out the light and gave myself up to drug-induced sleep.
After too much sleep and still under the effects of the nasty-tasting red liquid, I dragged myself out of bed this morning and tended to the usual chores. When they were done and I could settle into my usual reading location without too much guilt, I went in search of something less than terrible to read. Even the search, however, was more than my befuddled brain and achy body were up to. I allowed my mind to drift for a few moments, randomly, unrestrained, giving it free rein to prance and canter and even gallop where it would, with or without a planned destination.
When it came to rest, when it halted and bent its head to graze, I was not surprised at the location. The novel I had started to read two nights ago -- not last night, but the night before that -- had brought others to mind, others that were better written and more encouraging of the willing suspension of disbelief. No, not that silly Da Vinci fiasco that began with the slashed canvas of a portrait everyone with any awareness knows is painted on a wooden board. Rather I was reminded of Barbara Michaels' Houses of Stone, an oft-read favorite with flaws of its own. And of another, read only once but with immeasurable delight.
I have need of a good book today.