Despite the name of this blog, I don't often write about what I'm reading. Sometimes it's because I'm employing the "grab and go" method at the library, which can yield some interesting book choices. For example, I just finished what can only be called a romance novel, set in Amish Pennsylvania, with a mystery. But the romance stunk, the mystery literally was never solved, and it was wooden in concept and execution. Fortunately I read very quickly so I could indulge myself and finish it.
I can't knit on the mitten welt while I read, but I can read out loud to a child while I spin, if it's a book I'm familiar with, so that's been a help.
There is a book I chose for my usual library sprint reason, which is liking either the title or the cover. On this one, I liked both.
This one grabbed me right from the beginning, partly because it started with the last three stanzas of a poem that sang. True confession time: I'm a long-term English major who doesn't like poetry. It always felt like a dirty secret in school -- who doesn't like poetry -- but I didn't.
Now that I don't have to like it, there are sometimes poems that fly under my radar and just work. I may actually look up more of this poet's work.
So anyhow, this book shouldn't be the kind I liked. It deals with unbelievable pain, geographic dislocation, environmental change and pressure, a fracturing family, and did I mention pain? And it was, in fact, difficult to read.
But it reminded me what art is sometimes -- the transforming of pain into lucent beauty. So if you are looking for a read that is so beautifully crafted that the painful subject is worthwhile, check out this one.
I also got honey from my friend's underperforming hive today. We decided that they're underachiever bees, but we did meet her neighbor who is keeping five top bar hives just down the street. So that was a sweetness above and beyond finally rewarding her patience with honey.
3 hours ago