Book Hoarder

A friend who knows me well sent me this recently.

And how right she was.  I am a bookaholic and find it much, much easier to acquire books than I do to give them up.  However, before I launch into a discussion of some of the books I have reading, I am going to digress and express my heart felt sympathies to my friend - and everyone who lives in her city.

My friend has book hoarding tendencies herself, and is instilling the same habit in her boys.  She and her family live in Napa and have rather more on their plates than books at the moment.    On Sunday an earthquake measuring 6.0 on the Richter Scale hit their city, which must have been terrifying.  This first shot is inside their house.

And the next inside their garage.

It seems that whatever could fall down did.  Including some things that no-one expected to fall.  The clean-up and repair work ahead of them is huge - and daunting.  My heart goes out to them.  However the whole family, their dog and their cats are safe.  Which is what matters.

I hope that the clean-up, tidy-up and repairs for them, and for everyone affected, goes smoothly, and that life resumes an even (not rocking, lurching or crashing) keel soon.

Returning to my bookaholic ways.  I always have at least two (and often more) books on the go at once.  They can be fiction or non-fiction and I don't restrict myself to any particular genre either.  I have favourites, but few restrictions.  I read for education, comfort, beauty, escape, humour and delight.  And achieve it.  Often.

I read every day, no matter how busy I am (or should be) and regardless of how I am feeling.  These are some of the books which have been taking me away from domestic duties recently.

The first, The London Jungle Book by Bhajju Shyam was one that  Dinahmow flagged as one that I might like.  And how right she was.

Bhajju Shyam is an artist from the Gond tribe in Central India, and this book reflects his first encounter with a western metropolis, and with international travel.
He went to London to paint murals in an Indian Restaurant and the book is a visual travelogue - and a delight.  The Gond traditional way of thinking and painting says that reality is less important than how things are seen and perceived by the onlooker.  Accordingly, the things that were important to him were drawn much larger than other things.... so a train can be smaller than a human, and thoughts can be expressed as birds - carrying him in all sort of directions ever higher.
He saw, and drew the airport as a huge bird of prey.  An eagle which swallows the humans who line up to be let inside.  Not a perspective I had ever considered - but it made a heap of sense to me.

As did his discussion about 'becoming a foreigner'.  He had seen foreigners before but when he landed in London he discovered that his colour was different, and that his language had been taken away.  He had become a foreigner!!!

The cover to the book is taken from his illustration of Big Ben - the temple of time.  He has a watch - but his symbol of time is a rooster, which wakes you up at sunrise and allows the day to follow its course.
This slim book is a pictorial and philosophical delight.  I have read it several times - and get more from it each and every time.

The next is Kate Atkinson's Life after Life.

I think I have read most of her books - and am likely to continue.  She is a very varied author.  Varied subjects, and her 'voice' and style changes with each novel as well.

This one I had reservations about after reading the blurb.  'What if you had the chance to live your life again and again, until you finally got it right?'

And I was wrong to doubt her.  The books starts with a snowstorm in England in 1910.  A baby is born.  The baby dies before her first breath.
During that same snowstorm, a baby is born - and survives.
And we follow that baby and her family through to 1945.  Characters die, characters get second, third and further chances.  Some fundamental things change, and some retain a form of permanence.

That baby grows up, and develops/acquires a strong sense of deja vue.   Which causes difficulties.

As I said, I had reservations when I picked it up.  I wondered whether it would descend into confusion or mawkishness.  Which it didn't.  There was one time slip/life relived that I found unsatisying, but only one.  Ambitious, and gripping.

My next featured book is again courtesy of Dinahmow.  A gift.  The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern.

The Night Circus arrives without fanfare or warning.  It simply appears.  Materialises.   Within the black-and-white striped canvas tents is an utterly unique experience. It is called Le Cirque des Rêves, and it is only open at night. And is a circus like no other.

Behind the scenes, a fierce competition is underway: a duel between two young magicians.  The rules are uncertain, the goal is uncertain.  And, for much of the book the magicians are not certain who they will be competing against.  Or what the prize will be.  Or the cost of losing.

It is a highly descriptive book.  Sometimes lyrical, sometimes foreboding.  Always complex.  

And I loved it.  And would go to that circus if ever I got the chance.  Again and again.

Thank you Di.  Very much.

And the final book to this post is different again. Heart Sick by Chelsea Cain.

 I have a weakness for murder mysteries.  My uncertain memory means that I am not certain who dies, let alone who the culprit is so I can read them again and again. 

Gretchen Lowell, a serial killer, captures her last victim.  The man who was in charge of hunting her down.  She tortures and maims him, just as she has her other victims.  And then, instead of killing him, calls for medical assistance - and hands herself in, and is sentenced to life imprisonment.

Two years later, he is back at work.  Searching for another serial killer.  And as he searches we learn more about his time in captivity.  And more about his captor.  

I understand that there are more novels in this series also featuring Gretchen.  It is a fascinating premise, but I am not certain whether I am strong enough to read them.  This was apparently Chelsea Cain's debut and it is clever.  And very, very nasty. 

It is crowded inside my head - and every thing I read feeds, nurtures, sustains that crowd.  And gives rise to further growth.  Which I think is a good thing.