I’m sadly neglecting this place, since my new job hardly leaves me any time for lunch, and I used to draft blog posts during my lunch break. But the truth is that I’ve hit a dry spot lately when it comes to books. A few untimely choices, not really terrible, but nothing that would really carry me away.
My husband suggested that we had too many books on sight everywhere. He’s speaking the truth of course, but that’s more due to our Parisian space constraints than to the sheer number of books we keep. I have nothing against culling out (to donations and Bookmooch), and I also want to be realistic about books that I enjoy vs. books that I ought to enjoy. A few books disappeared from the shelves in the process, but nothing drastic. Yet, for the first time for long, I have no title that springs to mind when I ask myself: what to read next?
I’ve realized yesterday with a jolt how bored I’d really grown, as I sat on our sofa electrified by the BBC series Sherlock. I became an instant fan. Yes, I know, I’d never thought I’d come here to write about telly, and that’s not my point really. The House of Silk could not passion me, although it had all the right details, while Sherlock got the spirit better and transposed it brilliantly to our days. Of course, TV series have the unfair advantage of easy brilliance, pace, visual and atmosphere, but I had a sudden flash of memory that I’d felt the same adrenaline rush when I first read Conan Doyle as a young teenager.
Now, that’s the kind of experience I want when I read. Ideally, every single time. The last time I had real fun in books was with Alexandre Dumas’ Three Musketeers, a charming, fast-paced romp with great characters and lots of humor.
So I turn to you: what have you been reading that made your heart beat faster?