Let the cries of, "Oh no, not more books!" ring out. At the very least I get the knowledge that I didn't succumb to the book-buying urges myself; my father bought them. It's the two NYRBs that I'm most interested in. I've heard of neither of them, but both sound fascinating.
Herself Surprised by Joyce Cary and
Indian Summer by William Dean Howells. The first of these is described as the story of a "latter-day Moll Flanders" and the second as a romantic comedy of errors. I'm also looking forwards to a wander through
Word Fugitives by Barbara Wallraff, which seems to be basically a collection of newly coined words for all the things you ever thought there should be one concise word for.
I don't know how I didn't already own
Book Lust. I listen to Nancy Pearl on the radio all the time, and my father has met and spoken with her. I have basically no interest in
The Rope Eater, by Ben Jones, but it wasn't bought for me so small matter. It's about Civil War-era Arctic exploration, two themes in which I am profoundly uninterested.
Poisoned Pens, by Gary Dexter, is a collection of famous author's writings on other famous authors whose books they hate. I'd never be able to read all of this, as it would make me too sad to read anything hateful against my favourite authors, but some of it might be fun. And
Women in Antiquity, by Charles Seltman, is pretty self-explanatory non-fiction.
As I've finally got down to the last of the imminent library books, it'll be nice to have these to look into next.
They always say the internet is the death of snail mail, but all the most exciting mail I've gotten in the last couple of years has been due to my presence on the internet. I've had mail from Singapore, England, Ireland, and now Canada. Not really knowing anybody from any of those places, sans internet I never would have been in contact with them.
