behindtheax

Reading

I’m now reading Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. Yes, the subject matter is a little disturbing, but he is an incredible, incredible writer. It is hard to put down. Gardner had mentioned Nabokov quite often in “On Becoming a Novelist,” and I wasn’t at all familiar with his name. Yes, I know. But in my defense – I was too busy reading Jackie Collins, Sidney Sheldon, Stephen King and countless others in my twenties. And in my thirties I fell in love with long epic type fantasies and anything Canadian and anything Oprah selected. So, it has only been the last five years or so that I have started to actively search for the best of the best. Not that I haven’t stumbled upon many amazing novels on my own. Like when I first took Margaret Lawrence’s Stone Angel down from the library shelf and decided to read it. She is one of my top ten favourites now. In my early twenties though, I thought there was no greater writer than Stephen King. He took me to places exactly where I wanted to go. The more bizarre the better. I lived “The Stand” for a week - and Larry McMurtry’s, “Lonesome Dove.” Did the same for me. I won’t be the one to try to diminish the merit of any writer, or nor would I go back and unread any book I ever read, but at this point, my enjoyment aside, I want to know what separates the truly good books from the rest of the pack.

The sun is out today and I have so much on my to do list. yesterday i was down and found myself standing looking out the back window in the early morning hours - but what a difference a day makes.

Moon loaded with morning
All chambers
Two black squirrels
Pause
On the power lines
One two
They scamper across
Thin tails flicking
branches grappling
a loose sky
scraping away grey
dirtying the snow
this day begins dark
And on my ring finger
A circle of red
a faint itch

posted by mary j. @ 9:28 AM