Remember I said I was simply going to tell you what books I've read and whether I've liked them or not? Well, when have I actually done that? Gee, I tend to natter on about them.
Anyway, I've been remiss. Since we were last in the library, I've read Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. I was surprised I hadn't read it before. It came from one of the many boxes of books John gave me. I'm glad I read it, just because it's a classic. I wouldn't read it again, though. I liked the foreword by the author. There were parts he'd change, but of course he's just letting it go since it's so popular.
I read Three Junes by Julia Glass. Wow. It was really, really good. It's her first novel, so goody: there'll be more. Unless she's like Harper Lee. I loved everything about it. We had Scotland and Long Island and gay men and happy marriages and dogs.
Just this morning, I finished She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb. It turns out that I'd read it before. This happens, but it's usually with movies. The book seemed familiar until I finally realized that, indeed, I had read it. But that doesn't mean I remembered anything. I just kept experiencing the familiarity and wondering what happened next.
Now let's move to the movie section. I watched Milk the other night. I loved it, of course. I cried off and on throughout. I'm always so amazed at the bravery -- the physical courage -- of just plain old people, non-warriors, who have finally just had enough.