Once upon a childhood "summer" meant countless hours to lay out in the backyard reading, to stay up late reading, to bask on the beach reading. Fiction, mostly, as a child. "Literature" as a teen. Poetry and memoir in college. Since academia I've tried to balance genres by always having three or four books I'm reading. A typical stack would include poetry, something non-fiction, and a piece of well-written fiction.
This past month's reading pile reeks of a more serious, less artistic concoction. When chemo began last October, I couldn't concentrate to read (or write) for weeks. The few books I tried to read, I disliked. Fiction felt shallow. Poetry, ego-centric. Nonfiction became my sole companion. My racing mind could skim books about organizational methods or psychology. Child-rearing books substituted for the mommy friends who were to germ-y for me to actually find and meet. Mostly I read, no, memorized board books as I clung to one cherished activity I could share with my son.
These days I'm only reading non-fiction (and lots of board books). I miss fiction and poetry. I miss having a long list of books to read someday. So much has been lost this last year. The healing process is as bewildering as chemotherapy so I wonder if finding my next favorite novel or book of verse won't be part of it.
Any suggestions?
I've been on a non-fiction kick recently as well, and, looking back at my book journal, it turns out that by "recently" I mean "for the past eight months". Yikes! Kazuo Ishiguro has been hanging out at the top of the list though; I haven't decided yet whether that will be Remains of the Day or Never Let Me Go. We've also started Wind in the Willows with Logan, so that's a nice dose of fiction every evening.
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