A book is a gift you can open again and again – Garrison Keillor

Things are not as they should be just now. My head is all over the place. Too much work. Too much stress and anxiety. Too much to do, too little time.

The result? I have four books on the go. Yes, FOUR. Now that can’t be right, can it? I've never done this. I don’t know where I’m at. My concentration is shorter than short. My decision-making is non existent.

And so I have four books on the go. My endeavour to read Kundera’s essays continues. It’s a tad hard work. But not altogether unpleasant. Therefore, I persist.

In the meantime, I need to read for pleasure and so started Eugene Onegin.  Pushkin. A novel in verse.  A strange experience.  But enjoyable all the same.  Which is more than a little surprising, I don't mind telling you.  I’m not a big poetry fan.  Much to my chagrin.  I would like to be.  But I'm just not. So this was to be a challenge. That it's enjoyable is a great bonus. And so I persist.

Then after my bout of extravagance on eBay, a book arrived that I couldn’t wait to delve into. Literally, couldn’t wait. I unwrapped it and began to read. The Note Books of a Woman Alone. A strangely intriguing title. And you know my penchant for intriguing book titles.

 

The foreword in itself was stunning. The reasons behind the collection and publication of these notes books. The reasons having motivated an acquaintance of the woman alone in question. The rest are the starkly honest thoughts and mental meanderings of this woman alone. Along with snippets from authors, newspapers, novels, poems. Quotes and passages obviously close to her heart. Making a somewhat melancholy read. But so touching. I haven't finished it yet. But will. And so I persist here too.

And finally the fourth book: Where the Sidewalk Ends, by Shel Silverstein. During the Armchair BEA, a fellow book blogger recommended it to me. With gushing enthusiasm. Supported by comments from other book bloggers. I’d never even heard of it. So into my Amazon basket it went. And somehow it slipped into my post box. And onto my knee. And I started reading that yesterday...

 

Short poems. Yes, more poetry! Mainly for children, methinks. But delightfully written. Moral counsel. Cautionary tales. Childlike musings. A truly wonderful work.

 

Hug o' war. It's dark in here. Early bird. Rain. One inch tall. Sick. The crocodile's toothache. Lester. No difference. It reminds me somewhat of Hilaire Belloc.  Compulsive reading. Sweet. Instructive. Funny. And so I persist.

But this cannot continue. I’m divided. Pulled four ways. And that is never a happy situation. But I have train journeys ahead. So I hope to get everything back under control. Shortly. Soon. I hope.