“Good books are friends,” says the fortune from Saturday night’s Chinatown dinner.
Yes, they are wonderful things, and I seem to own a lot of them. Unfortunately, I seem to have been making bad book choices for me lately. I’m happier when the good guys aren’t portrayed as mass murders, aren’t wandering the world in denial, and aren’t totally unlikable persons. I confess I’m not fond of deep, black, dark characters like this.
As I grow older, I read only short snippets on cops, or lawyers, or heros like this and put the book down. Is the author reaching? Is there so little left of me that I have to read this bit of garbage? Is there so little left of me that I don’t understand the author’s premise? Perhaps there’s so little left of me that I’ve been suckered in by a blurb that doesn’t tell me what’s going to sock-it-to-me later.
I came upstairs with a book in hand last night wishing I liked some of these folks I was reading about. Somehow or other, my head is seems tender.
Perhaps just today, I need to go reread old favorites.
- Himself:No good wrecks today at all. He’s a very tired G tonight after that long weekend. Skipped everything last night and this morning too.