Well, since we all can’t go anywhere, why not revive this zombie blog and write about what I’m reading?
To be honest, it’s not much because I am catching up on my TIME magazines while finishing Maupassant’s A Woman’s Life and – boy howdy! – that book is not exactly fun. But what can you do? My OCD requires me to finish it. So here I am, sitting in my Poäng chair, feet outstretched on the foot rest, reading one page, one paragraph, one sentence at a time. Every now and then I look at my bookshelf to the left and what a sight that is: all these books I haven’t read yet! You’d think it motivated me to finish this one faster, but…
I catch myself thinking about what to read next. Rachel Maddow’s Blowout? Not likely while I still catch up on TIME magazine. That would be too much politics at once. The Charles Manson biography? Still too close to politics. I need something fictional.
In a state of trance, I get up and walk over to the bookshelf. At once, I hear all the voices escaping from the dusty pages, all yelling atop of one another, longing to be heard.
The first one sounds foreign and I see the copy of Flaubert’s Madame Bovary but I quickly retreat from that. One Frenchman just ruined my reading experience for a month. I need a change in pace.
Ellis’ American Psycho, Martin’s Game of Thrones series (should I reread the first book before starting the second one?), James’ A Brief History of Seven Killings, Auster’s 4321, Ramsey Campbell’s The Darkest Part of the Woods. All unread, all screaming at me, promising me joy and thrills for hours!
Or should I go for a short story collection? I turn Clive Barker’s Books of Blood, Volumes 4-6? I can’t remember too much from volumes 1-3, but I know it won’t be necessary. Richard Matheson, Daphne du Maurier, Ray Bradbury. They all ask me whether I have a few minutes. They promise they’ll be brief.
The only book that keeps quiet is in the top right corner. It’s my trusty German copy of Stephen King’s The Stand. Is it ashamed of the current situation? I look its yellowed pages. The over 1,200 pages would be a serious commitment.
In the end, I don’t know which one to pick. They all look good to me. I go back to my Maupassant. Read one sentence. Then another. And another and another and…
There is one good thing about being stuck with a terrible book: as long as I read this one, I don’t need to decide which to pick next.