Last year was a lot. Thirty four books in a month is objectively a lot of books in a month. Hell, the other Bookstravaganzers have set reasonable goals, and even those are still a lot of books in a month! Forty is a new thing. I don’t know if it’s possible. I did take that accidental break halfway through last year to flirt with boys, so maybe not taking a similar break this year will allow me to read six more. Or maybe it won’t, but either way there are no boys in the offing. Only books.
So what do we have? Well, there’s some Nabokov. Three Nabokovs, actually. I save him for this month because he reminds me of glittering and perfect things, of reasons to go on reading when the goals I’ve set seem unreachable. Annie Dillard is in there, hanging out near Joan Didion and Margaret Atwood. Didion’s dead husband, John Gregory Dunne, is holding up half the stack. I look forward to getting to know him better. No Cormac McCarthy this year, but I can change that with a trip to the bookstore. Probably will, too, because I have to balance the glittering and perfect things with soul-crushing reality, y’know? For levity’s sake, there are two books about professional wrestling. I don’t care if Booker T is a good writer. There are some borrowed books, some books I’m not giving back, and a few books my mom picked up at Costco because she thought I’d like them. As always, I will begin with Kurt Vonnegut, because there’s no better place to begin.
To my friends: You’re not going to see much of me this month. But hey, if you read the books that I read, it’s kind of like we’re hanging out!
To my fellow Bookstravaganzers: Thanks for doing this with me.
To my mom: I’m sorry that I’ll spend Christmas ignoring you in favour of this stack. I’ll make up for it in January. Please still feed me turkey.
To my stack: Bring it on. I’m ready.