I had started the year without any specific reading plans or lists because I knew I was not a good one for keeping to pre-planned plans when it comes to reading. I prefer to do my reading at whim.
So, I thought it was probably futile to have one and was not quite inspired to make any.
But then something changed.
And now, I think I do have one, and it’s one that I am quite excited about and feeling rather determined (or hopeful!) to see it through.
What happened was this.
I started an Instagram account sometime in December, after discovering the delights in being able to feast my eyes on a regular dose of book porn, through the various bookstagrammers’ feed out there. I was actually amazed to find that there are so many talented book lovers (cum photographers) out there who can effortlessly make books look so desirable as objects.
Creating the account was intended to mainly facilitate my ease of accessing to these feeds on a regular basis.
But when the new year started out on an unexpectedly rough note for me, I soon found myself in desperate need for a diversion of sorts.
As it happens, there was a book challenge hosted by some bookstagrammers that was taking place for the month, called the #AtoZbookchallenge, whereby one is to post a photo a day for each of the alphabets, relating to either book titles or themes or authors that goes with the particular alphabet each day.
Preferably, it should be books that are already on one’s existing physical TBR shelves.
I thought that sounded diverting enough.
And that’s how my unplanned reading plans came to be.
Here’s the A to Z of it.
Not sure how long it will take for me to complete this A to Z reading list, being the slow reader that I am. What I do know is that right now, I’m feeling pretty enthusiastic about it, and that’s a good start!
Let’s just hope that I won’t be stuck at ‘D’ for a long, long time…….
The consulting-rooms of Dr Orion Hood, the eminent criminologist and specialist in certain moral disorders, lay along the sea-front at Scarborough, in a series of very large and well-lighted french windows, which showed the North Sea like one endless outer wall of blue-green marble. In such a place the sea had something of the monotony of a blue-green dado: for the chambers themselves were ruled throughout by a terrible tidiness not unlike the terrible tidiness of the sea. It must not be supposed that Dr Hood’s apartments excluded luxury, or even poetry. These things were there, in their place; but one felt that they were never allowed out of their place.
Poetry was there: the left-hand corner of the room was lined with as complete a set of English classics as the right hand could show of English and foreign physiologists. But if one took a volume of Chaucer or Shelley from that rank, its absence irritated the mind like a gap in a man’s front teeth. One could not say the books were never read; probably they were, but there was a sense of their being chained to their places, like the Bibles in the old churches. Dr Hood treated his private book-shelf as if it were a public library.
‘The Absence of Mr Glass’ (taken from G. K. Chesterton’s The Wisdom of Father Brown).
While I have not been able to get much reading done during these past few weeks, what with all the busyness of the season and at work, thankfully the little that I have read has been good. I discovered that Chesterton’s dear old Father Brown makes for an excellent choice for company during such times. The vividly descriptive writing, peppered with Chesterton’s trademark wit and humour, is working very well to serve as the perfect comfort read for me at the moment.
And yet, however high they went, the desert still blossomed like the rose. The fields were burnished in sun and wind with the colour of kingfisher and parrot and humming-bird, the hues of a hundred flowering flowers. There are no lovelier meadows and woodlands than the English, no nobler crests or chasms than those of Snowdon and Glencoe. But Ethel Harrogate had never before seen the southern parks tilted on the splintered northern peaks; the gorge of Glencoe laden with the fruits of Kent. There was nothing here of that chill and desolation that in Britain one associates with high and wild scenery. It was rather like a mosaic palace, rent with earthquakes; or like a Dutch tulip garden blown to the stars with dynamite.
‘The Paradise of Thieves’ (taken from G. K. Chesterton’s The Wisdom of Father Brown).
…. like a Dutch tulip garden blown to the stars with dynamite.
How beautiful is that! I just love the picture that is painted here by these words…..
What about the rest of you?
Read anything good lately? 🙂
G.K. Chesterton has been described as one who can write alot faster than what most of us can read, and has published so many books that his posthumous reputation is almost impossible to sort out.
He would have been famous for just his Father Brown stories. He would have been famous for just his novels The Napoleon of Notting Hill and The Man Who Was Thursday. He would have been famous just as a literary critic…. Above all, he would have been famous just for his journalism; the thing he is least well-known for now.
Clive James, Cultural Amnesia: Notes in the Margin of My Time
As it turns out to be, it was the very thing that he is least well-known for now that had actually brought me to discover the wit and intellect of this prolific writer. I have not read much of his works, but the few essays that I have had the pleasure of reading were enough to convince me as to the depth and breadth that Chesterton’s writing has to offer.
I have yet to be properly introduced to his dear old Father Brown, so finding a complete set of these stories in such lovely Penguin editions at the recent book sales was really quite a thrill. 🙂
Father Brown, one of the most quirkily genial and lovable characters to emerge from English detective fiction, first made his appearance in The Innocence of Father Brown in 1911. That first collection of stories established G.K. Chesterton’s kindly cleric in the front rank of eccentric sleuths. This complete collection contains all the favourite Father Brown stories, showing a quiet wit and compassion that has endeared him to many, whilst solving his mysteries by a mixture of imagination and a sympathetic worldliness in a totally believable manner.
Having also just recently finished Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot’s Christmas, I am again reminded of just how fun and comforting reading these good old fashioned crime/mystery fiction can be. Which is why I was equally thrilled to find a copy of Edmund Crispin’s The Case of The Gilded Fly at the same sale. I have read quite a few good things about another of his Gervase Fen myteries, The Moving Toyshop which incidentally, has been named by P.D. James as one of the best five mysteries of all time. Pretty high praise, I would say. So, I am really looking forward to getting myself acquainted with this Professor Gervase Fen, a scholar who would much rather go about solving crimes than expound on the English Literature. 🙂
A cover like that alone would have sold me the book.