I have far too many books. Far #2ManyBooks Too many to read in one month, or one day, one afternoon a plenty, one year or decade. I read a few at a time: one here and one there; how many more, who’s to say, who’s to care? #2ManyBooks I’m an organizational champ, a pedantic time loon, ButContinue reading “#2ManyBooks. A Poem.”
Cormac McCarthy is a damn fine writer. He’s also a very disturbing one. Child of God is one of his older books (1973), and tells the story of Lester Ballard, a lonely and erstwhile Tennessee hick who loses his home to live a vagrant life in the mountains. Lester comes across a dead couple inContinue reading “Child of God. A book review.”
Tim Winton’s Breath is the kind of book that challenges your thinking about what it means to be a writer. Winton’s prose flows like poetry, with immaculate meter and dialectal mastery. Breath makes me ashamed to say I’m a writer, because Winton is so good: I am not worthy. I have never been so profoundlyContinue reading “Breath. A book review.”
I’m a bad reader. Not a bad reader, as in slow or illiterate, but bad as in I read 10-12 books at a time and as a result often find myself returning to a book, months after I started it, wondering what happened previously. I think this has something to do with my short attentionContinue reading “Bad Reader, Bad!”
I love books. Here’s a poem I wrote that expresses just that.
In times of need
Beckoning me back
To places beyond imagining