How many good books did I read this year? A lot. How many am I talking about today? Just two. It’s not the fault of the books. They all work as hard as they can. It’s just that I read so very many of you. You books. And my brain is just not as spongy as it used to be. It comes with age. I’ve been noticing it lately. So forgive me, for not mentioning all of you.
I would recommend buying these books perhaps with that new Oliver Sacks book on hallucinations, which I have not read but heard was great. A brain book trilogy feels epic. Pair them all with a bottle of red wine and a plate of cheese, one hard and one soft and stinky and gooey, and some dried apricots and a few squares of sea-salt chocolate, not for any reason other than that sounds delicious.
Jami Attenberg’s Year In Reading can be summed up simply:
It was nice to be in the sunshine during the month of January and there is much to admire about Barcelona, but I was sad for my friend, and for her mother, and a little sad for myself because I felt lonely, and then it was suddenly not that much of a stretch to start thinking about how I was going to die alone, you know, someday, and then I felt guilty for feeling sad when it was clear only my friend and her mother were the ones who were allowed to feel that way. So not only was I on a trip but also on a head trip as well. (Congratulations me.)
Jami Attenberg’s Year In Reading