One day, when I am trapped on a wifi-less desert island with nothing else to do but fashion yet another itchy coconut bra, I will finally crack the spine on Proust’s À La Recherche Du Temps Perdu: all 3000 pages of it. But until then, there are too many books pleading for my attention. Ones I can hold in the bath. Maybe 10 distinct imagined worlds, not one. Sorry, Marcel, but tomes are off the table. The shorter the better.
As a kid, I hoovered up Pippi Longstocking and Mrs Pepperpot. As a young adult, Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories were my perfect between-essays treat. Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper is as potent as any novel I read as a teenager. And, of course, the first stories I made up myself were short ones.
More
As a kid, I hoovered up Pippi Longstocking and Mrs Pepperpot. As a young adult, Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories were my perfect between-essays treat. Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper is as potent as any novel I read as a teenager. And, of course, the first stories I made up myself were short ones.
More
No comments:
Post a Comment