Most of what I've read over the past year has been for one book club or another. My to-read list continues to grow, but I wind up putting off book after book if (a) I know I'm not going to discuss it with anyone else (b) I'm so mentally tired; see previous post (c) some other shiny new thing catches my eye. By this time last year I'd read two times the books I've finished this year... and some of this year's I haven't even finished. For shame!
Talking about books in person is much more exciting than writing a recap on Goodreads and that's the number one reason I haven't updated my current status there. I have regrets, you know? It's unlikely that I would be able to remedy that backlog with any accuracy. If it weren't for the sneaking suspicion that I might someday wind up rereading a book without even knowing it, I would give up on it altogether. But the sneaking suspicion counts for a lot, so it's on my list of things to finish before the end of the year. For shame, again.
Tonight it was Oscar and Lucinda, which I read until about the 80% mark, then watched the movie, then read the ending of the book for comparison. (They're different! WAY DIFFERENT.) This book has everything. Shock plot twists, stretches of dullness, religious zeal, tense shifts, will-they-or-won't-they, heavy symbolism, lite symbolism, weirdnesses abounding. I never would have picked it up if one of our members hadn't said she'd been meaning to read it--it's twenty years old, it's written by a dude (trying to do less of that, especially when buying instead of using the library), and none of the summaries I found were ones that had me hot to read it. And here it is, almost midnight, and the combined effect of the book and the tea and the conversation is hitting me fully. It's a gratitude bomb.