On Reading for Pleasure

One of the side effects of taking a leave of absence is that I have rediscovered the joy of curling up with a good book. The other day, Ivan came home from work to find me curled up on the couch, deeply engrossed in an Orson Scott Card novel. I had no idea what time it was, nor how long I'd been reading, but I'd devoured the entire novel in a day.

This morning, it's been The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood. I must say, it's a brilliantly written novel, with aptly poetic descriptions (particularly of gardens) and the sort of plot of generations that I enjoy. She's also captured her narrator perfectly: an elderly woman, fallen from grace, looking back over her life with all of the eccentric habits of the old (hiding keys in jars of grain, for example, because the sugar and flour bins would be "too obvious"). It's a good read, and engrossing.

So now I've pulled myself out of bed and am off to tackle the kitchen of doom, which has been a bit neglected of late.