The more it is trodden on, the faster it grows.
Showing posts with label favorites. Show all posts
Showing posts with label favorites. Show all posts

22 October 2012

I've wanted to read David Lodge's Changing Places for ages and was beyond myself when i found it in the Library. However, if I try to force myself to read one more page without being in the mood for it I'm going to throw it through my window. And never look back.

Sooo, for my own sanity, I gave good Mr Lodge an extended holiday from this household and brought in Helene Hanff 'cause I needed a dose of whimsical reading and strongly believe in the healing powers of 84, Charing Cross Road. 

Take for instance, this passage:
I hope you and Brian have a ball in London. He said to me on the phone: "Would you go with us if you had the fare?" and I nearly wept. 
But I don't know, maybe it's just as well I never got there. I dreamed about it for so many years. I used to go to English movies just to look at the streets. I remember years ago a guy I knew told me that people going to England find exactly what they go looking for. I said I'd go looking for the England of English literature, and he nodded and said: "It's there." 
Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Looking around the rug one thing's for sure: it's here.

The people in these letters feel so alive, and kind, and, you know, real. And there's so many books mentioned! It makes me want to hug my bookshelves and reread Jane Austen and wept in joy. In no particular order.

Talking about Jane Austen, I have this thing of judging characters in books (and people in general, to be honest) based in what's their opinion of her. I can't help it. When I read the letter of Charlotte Brontë in which she comments she cannot bring herself to enjoy Jane Austen I closed the book saying "well, I hate you too!" like she had insulted my mother. Truman Capote was kinder. I think his letters mention her a couple of times, but he misspells her name, so my opinion of him is somewhat ambiguous. The thing is, the moment I read the letter in 84, Charing Cross Road in which Helene Hanff raves about Pride & Prejudice (from me that hates novels, she says), I knew I was lost for good.

I can't describe it. This little book makes me so, so, so happy. And I know I'm generally awful when it comes to putting feelings into words, but I promise you this: even if I weren't terrible at it, I'd still describe the experience of reading 84, Charing Cross Road thus:
asahjsjkahdjkahsjkjkadjk!!!1!!!!1111!1!!1eleven! <3

84, Charing Cross Road

Posted by Nat on Monday, October 22, 2012 2 comments

I've wanted to read David Lodge's Changing Places for ages and was beyond myself when i found it in the Library. However, if I try to force myself to read one more page without being in the mood for it I'm going to throw it through my window. And never look back.

Sooo, for my own sanity, I gave good Mr Lodge an extended holiday from this household and brought in Helene Hanff 'cause I needed a dose of whimsical reading and strongly believe in the healing powers of 84, Charing Cross Road. 

Take for instance, this passage:
I hope you and Brian have a ball in London. He said to me on the phone: "Would you go with us if you had the fare?" and I nearly wept. 
But I don't know, maybe it's just as well I never got there. I dreamed about it for so many years. I used to go to English movies just to look at the streets. I remember years ago a guy I knew told me that people going to England find exactly what they go looking for. I said I'd go looking for the England of English literature, and he nodded and said: "It's there." 
Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Looking around the rug one thing's for sure: it's here.

The people in these letters feel so alive, and kind, and, you know, real. And there's so many books mentioned! It makes me want to hug my bookshelves and reread Jane Austen and wept in joy. In no particular order.

Talking about Jane Austen, I have this thing of judging characters in books (and people in general, to be honest) based in what's their opinion of her. I can't help it. When I read the letter of Charlotte Brontë in which she comments she cannot bring herself to enjoy Jane Austen I closed the book saying "well, I hate you too!" like she had insulted my mother. Truman Capote was kinder. I think his letters mention her a couple of times, but he misspells her name, so my opinion of him is somewhat ambiguous. The thing is, the moment I read the letter in 84, Charing Cross Road in which Helene Hanff raves about Pride & Prejudice (from me that hates novels, she says), I knew I was lost for good.

I can't describe it. This little book makes me so, so, so happy. And I know I'm generally awful when it comes to putting feelings into words, but I promise you this: even if I weren't terrible at it, I'd still describe the experience of reading 84, Charing Cross Road thus:
asahjsjkahdjkahsjkjkadjk!!!1!!!!1111!1!!1eleven! <3

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