For the past couple of days I have been somewhat swallowed up in Eva Ibbotson's The Morning Gift. This was the one Ibbotson historical I'd somehow missed. I'm going to finish it tonight, so a review will be forthcoming. But until then, please have this—Christopher Plummer's unparalleled recitation of "Brown Penny" by W.B. Yeats. A line from this poem makes a brief but shatteringly perfect appearance in The Morning Gift, and I can't . . . I can't get it out of my head.
This year really came through reading-wise. Initially, I didn't know what to expect. And I think I was a little surprised to find myself feeling a strong pull right from the beginning of the year to published books. I tried quite a few new-to-me authors with more abandon than I have in recent years—something I'm proud of and hope to continue. Not all of them worked in just an Angie-like way, but regret never entered the room. I passed them on. To the Little Free Libraries in my neighborhood, to the used bookstore down the street that I love, to my own public library in donations. Someone will love them. It didn't have to be me. And I loved giving them that little push along their way to the homes of the people who would soak up their words and hold them tight. What a gift books are. How much I need them and how grateful I am at the end of this year for the ones that came and continued on their way—but most especially for the ones that came to stay. And so, as has long bee...
Comments
Post a Comment