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LindaHilton

Linda Hilton

Reader, Writer, Merciless Reviewer and Incurable Romantic

Currently reading

The War of the Flowers
Tad Williams
Progress: 48/686 pages
The Jews in America: The Roots, History, and Destiny of American Jews
Max I. Dimont
Progress: 17 %
Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America
Ibram X. Kendi
Progress: 22/750 pages
All the President's Men
Carl Bernstein, Bob Woodward
Progress: 73/383 pages
Women's Gothic and Romantic Fiction: A Reference Guide (American Popular Culture)
Kay Mussell
Progress: 17/157 pages
The Looking-Glass Portrait
Linda Hilton
Really Neat Rocks: A casual introduction to the rocks & gems of Arizona and the lapidary arts
Linda Hilton
Progress: 61/61 pages
Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith
Jon Krakauer
The Power of Myth
Joseph Campbell, Bill Moyers
Progress: 20 %

Exquisite

Possession - A.S. Byatt

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.