Quite Certain, Actually.

So, I went to the bookstore today. First I went to the baby/parenting section and when I had an overload of belly pictures, I made my way to the top floor: Reference: Household. My intent was to ingest some organizational inspiration and then return home to implement. I picked up three splendid specimens and searched for a chair to get myself into domestic receiving mode(not shame at my lack of organization, just openness, receiving).

BUT, then I saw on the shelf: The Principles of Uncertainty by Maira Kalman. The inside front flap poked a little hole in the dark cloth that had been shrouding my heart lately and flipping through the pages I knew I must buy this book, go home and paint and forget about organizing. Thank you Maira.

Bel Canto

I just finished reading Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. Loved it. Completely. It was the first book I have read in a while that was completely satisfying. For example, Memory Keepers Daughter (by Kim Edwards) was exquisitely written, perfectly ordered, unflawed in structure, with shockingly beautiful use of metaphor and symbol, however… it was so intensely sad that I sometimes couldn’t pick it up and continue reading for fear that I would totally deflate, crumble from the misery of the characters. I do not necessarily mean this as a criticism. The book was effective, believable and beautiful. I only bring it up to explain why Bel Canto was refreshing. It was as if a group of people had all taken off their cynicism glasses and everything became precious and beautiful. The group of people may have been a combination of hostages and terrorists, but who is more in need of some relief from numbness?

On my list of books to read soon are Kim Edward's The Secrets of a Fire King, Water for Elephants, and Blindness by Jose Saramago.