Thirteen. I’m pretty sure that’s how many times I’ve read the third Harry Potter. Why the third? The third I read first when I was 12, obviously not fully grasping the importance of a chronological series at the time. While waiting feverishly for the next installments, I naturally read and re-read what was available.
I want to start out by saying that I’m really rubbish at New Year’s Resolutions. In 2014, I went zero for four — which is right around average for me. (Once I did manage to be vegetarian for an entire year, but the credit for that really goes to my roommates for making such yummy food.)
Sometimes, unlooked for as you are going about your every day life, you find the perfect book.
I don’t mean that it is perfectly written (and there are far too many opinions in this arena for it to be a useful criteria). No, I mean that it is perfect for you. Unbeknownst to you, this is the story you’ve been waiting to hear.
Every family has its Christmas traditions and my family’s, unsurprisingly, involved books.
We were fond of advent calendars, especially the ones with little doors that opened onto chocolate treats for each of the 24 days before Christmas. But we also had a different sort of advent calendar, one which, if we had bothered to name it, would have been called 24 Days of Christmas Books.
It would seem there’s never been a better time to be a Jane Austen fan. Her six novels are readily available, along with a plethora of sequels, modern interpretations, supernatural variations and guidebooks. A quick look around a bookstore or online will reveal such offshots as “Austenland,” “Austentatious,” “Austensibly Ordinary,” “Mr. Darcy’s Diary,” “Mr.
There has been a slew of indictments issued by grand juries in Juneau in the past few weeks, some of which have made headlines. Here's a comprehensive list of all the indictments handed up as of late, by date issued.
I like to pretend I’m not pretentious about what I read. I like to say I treat my fantasy novels, my young adult fiction and my classics all the same.
But I don’t.
And people, I’ve been reading Proust.
For a long time, I avoided Proust because I felt he personified pretentiousness. What could be more self-indulgent than a seven-volume novel of more-or-less fictional remembrances of a dead French dude? What could be more ostentatious than telling all your friends you were reading him?