Hello friends! This week, I’ve become obsessed with books that elude me in some way. They include:
1. Books I didn’t finish, even though they began well and promised to be very satisfying (Judith Flanders’s The Invention of Murder, which I began when pregnant but didn’t get far before having the baby. When I come back to it, I’ll have to start over.)
2. Books I’ve lent to friends, but can’t remember who or when (Old Filth, by Jane Gardam, where are you? Do you have it, Katharine? Eugene, did you take it out west?).
3. Books I’m convinced will be good but to which I failed to do justice as a reader, and which I’ll have to re-approach some day (Paul Theroux, My Other Life).
4. Books I swear I own, but cannot find for the life of me! I’m ransacking my house right now for Claire Tomalin’s biography, Jane Austen: A Life. I ran across a reference to it the other day and read the first few pages on Amazon (addictive: I dare you to read them and not buy the book immediately). Claire Tomalin is my favourite biographer. I own most of her books. I’m actually, ridiculously, saving one (Mrs. Jordan’s Profession) indefinitely because I don’t want the day to come when I have no Claire Tomalin books to look forward to. And now I’m ready for my Jane Austen moment.
If only I could find the blasted thing.
Am I alone here? What are your books that got away?
In other news: quick reminder that I’m at Mississauga Central Library on Saturday, reading, signing, and talking about the Victorians. Details here.