I have these new, completely unsharpened Penguin Pencils, classics really. They make me want to write simply and quickly with pencil and paper, not with pen, not with keypad, but with lead. To sharpen one and hold it in my hand means that I will embark on a great journey of words, with the spirit of the author and the book urging me on in some way. Each pencil has the famous Penguin and a well-known title along with the creator's name; a book cover in the round. Yet I hesitate. I wait, with Great Expectations; with poised hand.
And so I turn again to reading. For a few months now, I've been caught and captured by books after a long, dry spell of not finding the ones that resonate. This reading renaissance is like nourishment. I seem to be devouring the right ones at just the right time. They comfort and inspire, become a part of my world; give me energy; help me think. I relish the beauty of the stories and the weaving of words.
Here's my list, the most recent first:
The Hours, Michael Cunningham
Holes, Louis Sachar
Ella Minnow Pea, A novel without letters, Mark Dunn
Lighthousekeeping, Jeanette Winterson
The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold
Fair and Tender Ladies, Lee Smith
Raney, Clyde Edgerton (wouldn't recommend, but something spoke to me)
Light on Snow, Anita Shrieve
Shadows on the Mirror, Francis Fyfield
On the lookout for the next one...
or maybe I could pick up another Penguin Pencil, Words and Deeds, say, and see where it takes me...
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