Where did three days go? Into the lovely blur of summer.
Here is the second section of the second bookcase, Fiction H-L.
H is for more translations of Homer, and for Nick Hornby. My husband and I just finished reading Slam (not pictured) aloud in the car. H is also for Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, which is lovely and sad.
I is for Kazuo Ishiguro. I loved Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go and have been hunting for When We Were Orphans in used book shops.
J is for Henry James, unfortunately, but is also for James Joyce, which redeems the letter. I own two copies of Dubliners.
K is for Laurie R. King, author of the Sherlock Holmes and Mary Russell series. I’m saving The Language of Bees, the most recent one out in paperback, for a special occasion. K is also for Barbara Kingsolver and Rudyard Kipling. We bought a ferret because it was the closest thing to a mongoose, and if you want to know why mongooses are so spectacular, read “Rikki-Tikki-Tavvi.”
L is for Jhumpa Lahiri, whose Unaccustomed Earth I just finished rereading in preparation for a guest post on another literary blog. L is also for Madeleine L’Engle’s series about the Murrys and C.S. Lewis’s series about the Pevensies. The two thick volumes at the end are the collected letters of C.S. Lewis, which I’m pretty sure I’ll never read, but which I saw someone reading in a Starbucks once. If I ever did read them, I would take them to Starbucks too, for the sheer prestige of it.
Mostly About Books 