Reading
I’m falling horribly behind in my reading. There has been a sudden onrush of new titles, like Bill O’Reilly’s memoir in which I hope to see glimpses of what causes his “Pelagian Catholicism”. Perhaps success itself is enough.
Kathleen Norris has a new book out and I found “Parched” by Heather King for only a penny plus shipping on the ‘net. It’s an embarrassment of riches, or embarrassment of Richmon’s as we say after a character at my work. The library yielded baseball poet Robert Creamer’s “Babe” as well as George Plimpton’s “The Man in the Flying Lawn Chair”.
There’s also an especially promising “First Things” (Oct. issue) as well as Helen Bevington’s lovely “When Found, Make a Verse of” and Rubin’s “Dante in Love”. Dante is a figure of wonderment on many levels.
A blog makes me hungry again for Chesterton’s “The Everlasting Man” and the weather itself makes me pine for Annie Dillard prose as well as Ray Bradbury’s “Farewell Summer”. I revisited “Brideshead Revisited” last weekend, that dulcet flapper prose reminiscent of “The Great Gatsby”.
“Too much information,” sang the Police, long before the ‘net. They didn’t know the half of it.
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