Or maybe I am. I won’t bore you [too much] with the whole sad, sorry tale. What matters is I have more books. Never mind that I’ve taken to smuggling them into the apartment since technically, our stuff’s in lockdown given the impending move. Oops. Oh well.
So. Some books I bought near the start of last month:
- Flowers in the Storm, by Laura Kinsale.
- Apology for Idlers, by Robert Louis Stevenson.
- On Solitude, by Michel de Montaigne.
- Too Much Happiness, by Alice Munro.
- House of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski.
And, up thar, the books I borrowed from three different people. Come on, applaud me for my restraint.
- The Hopes of Snakes, by Lisa Couturier.
- The Ministry of Special Cases, by Nathan Englander.
- Siste Viator, by Sarah Manguso.
- Elsewhere Held and Lingered, by Conchitina Cruz.
And then, most recently, after a Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Pt 01 viewing with fellow dorks [we all bawled, no worries], the books spelunked and unearthed from two different bookstores:
- The Complete Fairy Tales, by Charles Perrault.
- The Wordy Shipmates, by Sarah Vowell.
- The Crimson Petal and the White, by Michel Faber.
- Proof by Seduction¸ by Courtney Milan.
Must. Not. Feel. Guilty. Then again, I keep telling myself not to buy any more books — to not even dare enter that bookstore, dammit, and stop kidding yourself that you’d only look and stay for five minutes, Sasha!
But, meh. I feel good. I feel powerful, hahaha. And after the emotional annihilation HP wrought in me, I need this therapy.