There are two motives for reading a book; one, that you enjoy it; the other, that you can boast about it - Bertrand Russell

It's the end of another year. How did that happen? And so much has happened this past year. Not least my move from one country to another. I am now happily installed in my new home, waiting to start my new job. And before I look ahead, I just have to take a little peek backwards.

I particularly lament my lack of reading these past few months. The move seems to have disturbed my momentum and killed my ability to finish books. A phenomenon which will be reversed the more I settle, methinks. Me hopes...

Still, overall, I have made my way through a delightfully diverse and not-so-shabby list of books over the past twelve months. From children's books to classics. Europeans to Americans. And a couple of re-reads thrown in for good measure.

The highlights for me have been many. Finally discovering Roald Dahl and Pooh Bear. Not disliking Dickens. Loving Waugh, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Tolstoy and Virgil. Re-acquainting myself with Emma and Le Petit Prince.

Disappointments have also been part of the journey. Realising that I really don't like Virginia Woolf. Finding Joyce hard going. Being unable to finish Kundera and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

My absolute favourites of the year? Hardy's A Mere Interlude, Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter and Waugh's Brideshead Revisited.

In total, I managed roughly 30 books this year. I'd like to improve on that during 2014. However, I put no pressure on myself. Some of those names remaining on my Classics Club Challenge are quite chunky. And, as I said, I'm just not on top of my reading at the mo. Let's see what happens, eh. And enjoy. :0)

He that loves a book will never want a faithful friend, a wholesome counselor, a cheerful companion, an effectual comforter. By study, by reading, by thinking, one may innocently divert and pleasantly entertain himself, as in all weathers, as in all fortunes - R H Barrow

I finally finished Emma. And in her company thoroughly enjoyed my Sunday afternoon of rain and gales. The storms outside tamed by the gentle ambling of the inhabitants of Highbury. 

It really was a pleasant read. With all the reminders of why Jane Austen's works remain timeless classics. Easy reading. Charming characters. And enough twists and turns to ensure a healthy - and amusing - mental constitutional.

Before we began our study of Emma for A level, my English teacher gave us a very severe warning. You will love it or hate it. The marmite of English literature, it would seem. A warning well founded.

Emma cannot be considered an entirely lovable character. She is wealthy, beautiful and intelligent. Added to which she is spoilt, revered and headstrong. Hardly a person to insight sympathy. And yet I cannot dislike her. Never have and apparently never will.

Austen herself it seems did not dislike her either. Indeed, she is credited with declaring that in Emma she was creating a character that only she would like. You can almost feel her presence hovering protectively over her favoured protagonist. Explaining her misdeeds. Excusing her silliness.

"Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief", she muses. The warning is clear. Although the application not quite so. Isn't Harriet Smith the weak head? Worked on with vanity by Emma? Indeed it is so. Yet Emma is by no means immune to the effects of vanity. And in doing so, shows her weakness. And the result? Only ever mischief, says Austen. Never malicious.

Austen also works through the delightful Mr Knightley to show Emma's humanity and personableness. How masterfully he rebuffs her puerile meddlings and fertile imagination. "Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do". Her stoic acceptance of such discipline and put-downs must give evidence of a good heart. Indeed, her entire conduct towards her troublesome father shows her worth.

So the read was a pleasant one and has given me a taste for the rest of Austen. Now that I have found a job (hurrah!), I feel that I can indulge this taste. Although re-reading such classics really does feel like too much of an indulgence. Like time ill spent when there are so many other books waiting for my attention. Can I indulge guilt free? Mmm. We shall see...

The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid - Jane Austen

It seems inconceivable that a month has passed since my last post. And without my having finished a book. Not one.

Indeed, since my last post, I have barely advanced through Emma. Or One hundred years of solitude for that matter. So much for "working through Austen's novels over the next couple of weeks". Still, my settling in has continued. I am now settled. And in.

Only germs these past three days have made me stop and stay at home. And read again. Hence I feel that I can post without shame. That said, I still haven't finished Emma. Speed is beyond me. And it suddenly seems to be a very long novel. Was it ever so?

That's one more thing about reading on Kindles. It's fine having a percentage gauging your way through. But it's nothing like seeing how far through a book you are. And how far you've got to go. Like carefully placing your bookmark, and flicking through the remaining pages to the end. Not reading, just savouring what's gone before and what is to come.

Yet my reproach is harsh and fleeting. My dear Kindle is in fact ideal. When you're feeling pants, and want to lie down on the sofa and read. When you feel colder than normal because of the germs coursing through your veins and so want to keep as much of your body as possible under the quilt. When your cats have cuddled up to sleep on your belly and your feet, and you can't move without waking them. Then my dear Kindle is indeed ideal. Only one hand needs to be exposed because only one hand is needed to hold it and turn the pages. No need to expose two hands. No need to move and disturb me or the cats. No need to fret. Oh yes. I still love my Kindle dearly.

No person who can read is ever successful at cleaning out an attic - Ann Landers

I’ve finally arrived home. To my hometown. I’m installed in my new flat with my cats, waiting for my furniture to arrive. And the rest of my life to begin.

Those of you who might still be popping by regularly (thank you!) may well have noticed a lack of activity on this blog. But lack of activity here belies a great deal of activity elsewhere. Indeed I have been so very active over the past couple of months. To the point of exhaustion. I resigned, packed up and came home. And that was more work than you can imagine.

So I've been active in moving. Just not in reading matters. Consequently, my books have been somewhat neglected. Then packed away. Then sent off. And thus my reading activities have more than stalled.

I did keep my Gabriel Garcia Marquez read out. One hundred years of solitude. Indeed, I took it with me everywhere over the past two months. On the bus, on the tram. To the dentist’s, optician’s, doctor’s, physio’s. Even to the vet’s. But there were too many distractions. Too many check lists to check and check again. Too many phone calls to make. People to see.

And so I have still only read a quarter of the book. And, I do have to say, not much enjoyed that. Is it me? I'm just not enjoying the tales. The ramblings. I think it’s possibly not the book to read while repatriating yourself. Or maybe just not the book for me. We shall see.

So in the meantime I've opted to re-read Emma. For familiarity. For comfort.  And loving it. Again. I may continue in the same vain and work through Austen’s novels over the next couple of weeks as my settling in process continues.

I will get back on track – and back to my Classics challenge – once on more stable ground. In the meantime, JA will soothe me through these turbulent days. In which I am actually delighting...

A house without books is like a room without windows - Heinrich Mann

Way back when I started this blog, I wrote about The Descendants. One of three books that featured in my first post, methinks. When I was still in incredible pain. Trying to ease my days with good reading.

And good reading this was. A strangely traumatic and yet very probable story. Really enjoyable. Beautifully written. Intelligently put together.

I mused at the time that I was curious to see the film. Because George Clooney was playing the lead. And only for that reason. Sad but true. I'm rarely curious to see the film of the book.

Since that time, the DVD of The Descendants has been high on the list in my DVD-by-post club. And I've been waiting and waiting to see it. And waiting.

Until this last week. When I ended my membership of the DVD club because of my move back to the UK. I'm ending all memberships here. Standing orders, contracts, the lot. But the membership department of the DVD club apparently has not yet communicated with the dispatch department. And the latter sent me my regular batch of DVDs. Including the long-awaited The Descendants.

So yesterday afternoon, instead of working through the huge list of things I have to get done before I leave, I sat with chocolate and orange juice (a most sublime combination, I might add) and indulged myself with the film. It was bliss. The day was grey and wet, and deserving of little else. My bliss was complete.

On top of which, this is a really good interpretation of the book. Now I know that I'm a bit late in this observation. There have been awards and nominations to prove the fact. Still, I feel the need to add my voice. It was the book that I remembered. It echoed the ambiance that I had felt.

And George. Well, he was good. More than that. He was very good. He was how you always hope he will be. Delightful. Really. I may have to watch it again before sending it back...