It’s one of those beautiful, rainy Sunday mornings. The kind where everything is just right to curl up with a blanket, a cup of coffee, the cat, and a good book, and just read for a few hours. But I feel like I’m at a loss for what to read, despite the many books on my shelves.
I got to page 60 of Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things, but I don’t think I’ll be finishing it. The prose is wonderful- sparkling words that perfectly recreate the feeling of summer in India or the way rain falls on leaves, but I haven’t been able to form any kind of bond with the characters. I need that bond. I need to care about the characters, care what’s going to happen to them, and with these characters, I don’t.
It’s frustrating, wanting to be reading, but not caring for the novels you’ve picked out, but I suppose there’s nothing to be done except shrug and move on to the next book.
I have Joyce Carol Oates’s Bellefleur and Edgar Cantero’s The Supernatural Enhancements, both of which I’ve had for a while and just haven’t read. I guess it’s time to do so.