books seem to come in flocks, folds, flutterings, or small groups of other names. today i randomly came across eileen favorite’s “the heroines” which i bought after reading the blurb on the back twice. though i am not sure if the blurb does the book any good. on the other hand it is still better than what they do to so many books, where you just find reviewers’ praise – i like to know what the book is about, seeing the sheer quantity of books published every year, month, even day. it is scary. in any case, heroines are traveling in my bag now and will be for a few days until i have read the last of them. the time is 1974, the narrator a 13-year-old girl who lives with her mother in illinois. from what i have read so far, the story has potential and i am intrigued to see where it goes, if it goes the direction i think it might. my main reason for choosing this book was that it fits in well with my interest in books about readers and books. 🙂
It suddenly dawned on me that this girl I’d been fighting with and hating and wishing would go away was a genuine Heroine. Boring Deirdre was one of them; even Mother hadn’t guessed. Never before had a man leapt from the pages of a book to recapture a Heroine. Deirdre was so depressed – crying all the time and monopolizing Mother’s attention – she must have come from some awful romance. Only a cheap book would have binding too weak to hold back a stereotype like this guy. All of this flashed through my mind while my body trembled with terror. For, whatever the plot line, however base the literary merit, this guy and his torch were close enough to set the tree on fire. (p.7)
when i got home, a slim package was waiting for me and inside was “[one love affair]*” by jenny boully, which i’d been waiting for the past two weeks. yay! the shipping note was stuck into the book, at a random (or maybe not?) place, so i will share from that page (26) just to give you a teaser, an idea of what lies between the sheets. as for myself, i will start reading from the beginning tomorrow. i’m excited.
I would mail it to myself; it would be as if you were again with me.
You mailed me the autumnal leaves of Annapolis: yellowing things, decaying things, crumbling things.
My lack of pregnancy flashes, a keen knife parting the silently tremulous waters.
On the pizza, you ordered bell peppers, banana peppers, jalapino peppers, crushed red pepper; the waiter asked, Are you going to be alright?