So, finished. What a great story… In the last two days I absorbed two books. Yesterday it was ‘State of Wonder’ (2011) by Ann Patchett. The day before yesterday I finished ”Grief is the thing with feathers’ (2015) by Max Porter.
Ann Patchett writes about Marina, a female scientist who travels to the jungle of Brazil to find her lost colleague. Dangers of anaconda’s, huge spiders, malaria, ruthless tribes shooting poisonous arrows. A captivating story.
And Max Porter’s book is about a family in grief. The story of a father who is left alone with his two young sons after his wife all of a sudden passed away because of a stroke. Porter’s style is partly prose, partly in verse, sound-poetry. Heart-breaking.
It has been quite a while ago that I was able to read fiction. In this last year I’ve been reading a pile of mourning books, then books about near-death experiences, followed by books about Buddhism and Tao. Next I fed myself with cookery books. I just couldn’t get my head around fiction.
Well, it looks like I’m back to storytelling again. Which is handy, because there are three shelves of novels-to-read waiting for me. Once I heard a well-read writer being interviewed about his reading habits. No, no names. He boasted that he had read over ten thousand books. He was in his forties then. Ten thousand?? I found it hard to believe. But from that moment I made a list of all the books that I read. And finished, no cheating. I jotted down all the books that I had read from the first to the last page. And I noticed that I’m reading about 80 – 100 books a year. Now, imagine… hundred books a year means about thousand books in ten years. So, ten thousand books in hundred years? How many books can one read in a lifetime?