Another book post....

I seem to be having an awkward (that’s an awkward word, isn’t it?) time attempting to veer off the bookish path. The other topics always seem to tax my brain, whereas issues of a literary nature are quite normal to me, and seem, quite exactly so, to flow from out my fingers across the black keys of the board that thrillingly defies all my expectations. And there’s nothing more awesome to me than normal.

Which is ironic since normalcy is actually a state of mind programmed to silhouette each of us in our own unique way. Some, more-so than others. But then, that’s the point, isn’t it? Our own exclusivity. How awesome.

“ The procession wound its quiet way through Yorkchester Cemetery, and the priest mused upon the transience of the world, and Sandra Morgan wept for her husband and looked hauntingly lovely, and the friends made the little necessary readjustments in their lives, and the boys’ feet hurt. And in the coffin, Michael Morgan beat on the lid and howled.” *

As you know, I’ve been wearing my bibliophilic hat, which fits quite nicely by the way and thank you for asking, most every day, give or take. Now, I realize it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Silly me. Can you imagine a spy/sleuth such as myself not realizing prior to this moment, that not everyone loves books the way I do? Humph.

That’s why I mix it up, photo journals; journal entries; life; blah, blah, blah; … something interesting here; something interesting there. So you won’t find my bookish posts boorish. Yeah, so? My human side show’n or somethin’? Yeah, so? Haven’t figured it out yet? The reader is always, always the adrenaline in the equation. Part of the fix. Or didn’t you know that? Words and readers. They don’t dance, one without the other. Capisce?

The way we are all normal in different ways, we all use the same words in different ways. When taken correctly, words are a powerful drug. Used in combination with certain other elements, words can be addictive. For instance, yesterday I received my recent percolations, and as normal, I looked at the cover art; then turned the book to the back for the glowing reviews. They always are, you know. Glowing I mean; next, I always read the copyright page; usually skim over the dedication and acknowledgments’ pages - boring; then one or two lines within. Just a little taste, mind you, before it goes in the ToBeRead stack, aka TBR.

So, far be it for me to circumvent routine, I picked up Peter S. Beagle’s A Fine and Private Place, read then skimmed, then, with the absolute noblest of intentions, turned the cover page, and { 1 } loomed. I was only going to taste just the first few lines. I swear. But before I knew it, I had devoured 24 pages.

“Michael Morgan walked thought the graveyard and his feet made no sound. The sun shone hot on him and he did not feel it, nor did he feel the tiny winds that chuckled between the stones. He saw a ring of Greek pillars that held up nothing, and near it a concrete birdbath. He saw fountains and flowers and a wheelbarrow half full of earth. Once a car rushed past him as he walked along the side of the road but nobody in it looked at him.” **

I know!!!

~

A Fine and Private Place:
illustration from Gervasio Gallardo's cover art
for the 1969 Ballantine soft cover edition

* (pg 11&12)
** (pg 17)
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