It’s been about a week since I turned twenty-four, and in all that time the Universe has seen fit to test if I’m up to this whole living-with-sanity-and-inner-chillness business. That is to say: Holy fuck, I had—have been having?—one of the worst weeks ever. And because we are who we are, I am consoling myself with books—with the fond remembrance of these little units of boundless pleasure, acquired as they were by money. Mmm. At least with my bookshelves, there is an approximation of rightness. So here are some new books. That is: Here are your new books, Sasha. [I guess I just needed reminding that, hey: Little joys are here and there; I just have to fucking write them down. And maybe remind myself, too, of the boundless cheer of days past, and these books bought in anticipation of a future of inner-chill perfect for actually settling down to read.] [Continue reading.]