Sunday, September 23, 2012
My house has officially succumbed to books. Bowed its head, elbowed out its own frame, said yes. Yes, Beth, you can have the newest pubbed books by David Levithan (Every Day) and Eliot Schrefer (Endangered) co-mingling with the galleys for This Close (short stories by your dear friend Jessica Francis Kane), and alongside these please add a dollop of Mary McCarthy's The Stones of Florence, a book on the history of eggs, three maps of Florence (one laminated), one old diary, several Florence guides, many tomes on domes, not to mention weather forecasts, three unread New Yorkers (unread, save for the back pages), and while all of that is going on, please add more to your iPad Kindle because having not yet read your e-versions of Code Name Verity (Elizabeth E. Wein), Salvage the Bones, and The Marriage Artist is no shame at all. Also, while you are at it, imagine A.S. King's Ask the Passengers (not yet released) sitting near. Just do it, Kephart. Do it.
So what did I do, in the midst of this? I took a walk with my best friend from college days, Ellen. We headed out to Valley Forge National Park, where my mother is buried and where Ellen and I often meet to talk life, not books. It was a ripe September day, crisp as a green apple.
I want it all, always.
I manage it poorly, more times than not.
Today, no books again. Instead, a trip to the city, to see my glorious, happy, smart, successful son. No prize greater than his glorifying smile.