Bookstores can be downright depressing sometimes. So many materials to read, so very little time.
I’ve got to come up with some sort of filtering process quick, and be a little bit more realistic about my goals, which means firmly telling that voice in my head that NO, you will not have the time to read the whole bookstore, now clam up if you please and choose your materials carefully.
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I’ve been watching teeny bopper movies with my sister - it’s been keeping the spirits perky (at the expense of turning my brain into mush). As expected, the storylines are painfully like-oh-my-gawd predictable, but I’ve got to hand it to the people in charge of choosing the music, they’ve got some catchy stuff I’ll be sure to share later.
Alhamdulillah for small blessings, like heavy rain at 2:33am drumming symphonies on one side of the window pane while Kate Walsh makes glorious music on the other, like being snuggled up under covers as it pours outside, like real/text message/virtual hugs, like stolen heart-to-heart talks in between packed schedules, like getting all artsy fartsy making crafty things with scissors and glue, like Japanese postcards from kindred spirits, like messages from London sweet enough to make a girl blush, like many other things that all add up to little bottles of happiness I forget I collect.
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Book review coming up:
I’ve had love affairs with a great deal of number of books before, each moving me in its own little way. Although I can’t say for sure that I’d read Ishiguro’s The Remains of The Day for a second time, I can say that the first time affected me enough to come here to the screen and tap away in my earnestness to share with you the subtle wonders of this story. (Thankyou K, for the recommendation.) As an Amazon reader wrote, it is essentially a tale of how to lose your life and keep on living, and reading this, you’ll find your heart breaking, little by little. It isn’t beautiful because it’s sad; it’s just sad, even without meaning to be.
Essentially, the story revolves around an aging butler who takes a few days off from work to go on a motoring trip across the English countryside. The year is 1956, it’s set in post-war Britain and as the butler goes on his journey, he begins to evaluate his past that brought him to his present state of being. I know it sounds as dull as ditchwater, but if you like a touch of psychoanalysis, hidden subtleties, quaint language and self-reflections, pick up this work of literature.
A word of advice - don’t be deterred if it seems slow and boring, because the plot needs to unravel at its own pace for you to get the whole picture. It’s like painting a portrait with intricate details; it takes a while to finish, but once done, it’s worth the while and you’ll appreciate it more.
What makes the protagonist so different from the rest of my books is the restraint he practices on expression.
There was one emotive line that he inwardly utters that was so very poignant that even after I finished the book, I kept returning to that one line, reading it over and over.
Should you read it, tell me what you think it is.
I borrowed the above book from the library, so it was one of those old, dog-eared copies.
The previous reader before me had underlined this one sentence which really resonated loud with me.
This is why I prefer old books, and all the small jots people make in them.
It makes me feel like there’s this whole connection of readers out there, communicating through books as they pass it along.
Which is why once I find a book I am willing to part with for the activity of bookcrossing, I’ll do it.
For now though…tak sanggup.
Enough said here.
