Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Book lover./ Book. Lover.

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My kind of paradise. What's missing is some sheets, "one not necessarily very beautiful man or woman who loves you", and probably some macarons.

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And this is the little cloud that I live on. It's gonna sound so lame but seeing the collection of Jodi Picoult's work lined up so neatly on the shelves got me so thrilled that I had to take a picture of it.

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I wish I hadn't read this book yet - just so I could buy it. I almost did, but I managed to knock some sense into my head and remind myself that I don't print cash. Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets, and needless to say, The Bell Jar is one of my favorite books. I stood there flipping through the pages, glancing at familiar paragraph of words that I have once surrendered, and will always surrender, to. At that moment I was doleful, because she died at 30. And also because The Bell Jar was her only novel and I thought what a pity that is. I imagined many other compelling novels that she could have written and I already knew I would love every single one of them. And at that moment it struck me how selfish my thoughts are: it saddens me not solely because she died at a young age or what she was going through then, but also because my needs can't be satisfied. Then I thought a bit about how there's no such thing as altruism... I am not kidding. This is really how my thoughts meander and brake and jump every single day.

So I spent about 2 hours at Kino and told myself not to walk out without a good book. But I did, all because of my indecisiveness. I held Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights, Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre , Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood, and Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones. I just couldn't decide. Currently filled with regret.

My night is hereby empty.

I'm already done with Jodi Picoult's Lone Wolf and David Levithan's The Lover's Dictionary. I thought I could just make do with my pdf version of John Green's Looking for Alaska for the night. But y'know how holding a book in your hands always feels better. Reading from a good old fashioned paper book gives you this certain kind of warmth I can't describe. The only warmth you get from reading off a screen is basically just the heat generated from your laptop.

There are certain things that technology can't replace.

My night is hereby empty.

I am going to bed alone.



And I'm not just talking about the paper anymore.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

This is completely random but I chanced upon your blog and I just wanted to say, The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold is one of the most amazing books I have ever read. Please get it.

Kathleen said...

YESS!! I almost did! I will get it soon hehe thanks :D