Scattered about my house are scraps of notebook paper and pink post-its with lists of book titles. Namely, books I intend to read sometime this century, preferably the while-I'm-still-alive part of this century.
Here's a sampling of titles from the first two lists I dug up:
The Trouble with Normal (Cherise Mericle Harper)
Bird by Bird
Writer's Workshop in a Book
Sacred Games (Vikram Chandra)
Falling Man (Don DeLillo)
The God of Animals (Aryn Kyle)
The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears (Dinaw Mengestu)
Rarely do I cross anything off these lists, however, since I never manage the foresight to bring any of the post-its with me to the library. So the books I borrow after a prodigious amount of hemming and hawing comprise an entirely different list themselves. A good list, mostly, but unintentional.
Yesterday was an exception.
It started off as not-an-exception, as I found myself at the library with four kids and no lists. But not only did I remember to look for Lolita, I actually found it on the shelves, in spite of not knowing the author's name (Vladimir Nabokov) and an apparent inability to ask for help.
So here I am, happily at home with three promising novels: Hattie Big Sky (finished it, pretty good), So B. It, and the aforementioned Lolita.
One book down, 274 to go.
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