Summer reading

 Its definitely fall here. The trees have had fantastic color, but now they are turning brown and are floating down like the prelude to a beautiful winter snow. 

I was sick this whole last week, or since Friday. Such a strong illness, but not Covid. I haven't lost my sense of smell or taste, but was weak enough that any small movements were almost impossible. I couldn't write this blog yesterday. I couldn't lift a water bottle the day before. 

But today I am well enough to write. I spent the summer doing a bit of reading. It was very hot and I was telling a woman Friday, when I came down with this flu, it is Wednesday now, that I was not cold because I was still getting over the summer. It was miserable. I wish I would have tried harder to be warm, though, on Friday, maybe I would have been better by now. As of yesterday, I couldn't open my hand. I was that weak.

So, moving right along, and without further ado, my summer readings. I was riding in a car with my mother and brother, I have no idea why, but we were riding around, waiting for something or running some errand, and we stopped by a book drop. Atlanta is fantastic with book drops. They are everywhere and sometimes they are real treasure troves, I have given back many books that I had received, but I am thankful for what I have read, and kept a few that I couldn't part with. So, my mother gave me

Book drop (plus that's the day after the Braves won the World Series, Go Braves!)

a book from her picks, she said she thought I might like to read some short stories because I like them so much. She was right, I read most of the book, before finding another and then another and another and so on, books to begin. Mostly short stories, I started reading The Help but found it too sad to finish,  I've already seen the movie. 

Short story book one was a lovely yellow but lime colored, textured like watercolor paper, soft cover book from the 1998 Greatest American Short Stories annals. (not sure if humor here or if I'm just a book cover lover, what a flake) This book was wonderful. I loved the 90s. The idea that everyone can get along kind of flourished then, there was a sense of freedom and compassion that seems to have slipped through the fingers of those holding it like water or sand, it obviously cannot be held in men's hands. I digress.

There were stories about having AIDs, and about growing up mid 20th century. Interracial couplings, women expressing themselves, depression era remembrances. This last thing, the depression story, was written by John Updike and I was so disappointed that I found he wrote The Witches of Eastwick, because I'm not a fan. But the simple story about his childhood and his father was so lovely and simple and poignant. 

There was another story, one about a child with cancer, it was written so well I might recommend you find the author. Her writing was probably good, but I remember being very impressed by the person herself, here was someone who knew what she was doing in life. The title of the story was People like that are the only people here and it is by Lorrie Moore. I looked her up, she won many awards. I'm not the only one who likes her.

After this, I found a book of short stories by Anton Chekov, or my mother found this one also. I read them out of order, the first one was A boring story. It may be boring to some, but being of the literary and intellectual sort, I loved this story. It was in fact pretty boring. It was about an old man dying. It was written in the 19th century so no close encounters with his mind, smells and farts amd this kind of stuff. More like a story should be, written concisely. I felt I really knew the man, I can look back and see what was written there. I was surprised that Chekov was in his 20s when he wrote it. It was my favorite story. But if you need cleverness and creativity when you read, I am more impressed by those who write beautifully about simple things, you may prefer his story Ward 6. It is one of those ones that makes you think. If you really must be made to think.

I ruined that book. It disintegrated in my possession. I loved that book. I loved Chekov, I am fascinated by this book not only because of his youth and that he was a doctor who made a living as a writer, but because I also read Dostoyevsky and there is a definite Russian culture which presents itself in their writings, which between them are very different. I may read some Tolstoy but first I have to find something that isn't War and Peace, are we kidding?

I read a story by Robert Louis Stevenson on a night I felt ill. Didn't finish it, it was good but was also kind of masculine. I would have had to go on an adventure through a jungle and I am not that outdoorsy. The story though, followed the tragic real life folly of humans who are more fond of those who don't care as much for them as for themselves. I like that it was so real that way, The Master of Ballantrae, I hope that is spelled correctly. The man lived to be 44. Stevenson did. This is what he did: his works

I found a copy of The Scarlett Letter, one of the great moments of my recent past was the relatively quiet evening at work not too long ago when a customer, an older kind of cool looking Irish guy, made a comment about my reading that book, can't remember exactly what he said, something like "that's some light reading" but not meaning it. Made me laugh. I explained that I liked his other works and that is why I was reading this too famous American classic. I also read a short story from Twice Told Tales after that, because I remembered it on my bookshelf. A couple of sketches about people coming and going in the late 19th century. It wasn't strange to me there. The opening of The Scarlett Letter was a good read. I struggled to find time to read at this time and am glad I straggled through the preface.

I read a short by french author Guy De Moupassant that I think should be in youth reading material. The Necklace. A perfect little short story. I read it on my balcony, at dusk, close of summer. It was beautiful that night, sigh...

I bought The Wisdom of Leonardo Da Vinci. I finished half. It highlights some of his journal entries.

I love to read. I'm terrible reader. I can hardly pay attention and struggle through every line. I am like a special needs person who desires greatly my independence, reading and rereading lines. When I find something that is easy to read, like Ms. Moore's story, I am filled with joy and pride. For her, not me. I'm like, look what you can do! You write beautifully! Even I am feeling this.

So, there. That's a lot of it. I think if you enjoy books, collecting these old annuals of great short stories is a must. I have a lot of them, and the English literature books as well. I have one book, 101 Great Books which is a lot of super condensed important works, one was an autobiography by a Renaissance era sculptor who says he raped a woman to punish her or her fiance. It is truly fascinating, I want to read the whole thing. His sculpture of Perseus holding Medusa's head is my favorite sculpture. And that reminds me, I've started Common Sense by Thomas Paine. He starts by saying how people judge right and wrong by what is going on in the times they are living. 

Obviously.