Books Read :: September

Ah, the true beginning of the semester. I was teaching 6 classes for a majority of September, 2 of which ended as September dwindled away. I still managed to get some reading in. Here's how I did.

Books Read in 2014: 35/52, according to GoodReads
(I also sort of abandonned the other challenge I had been doing, of prompts for each month, though I was enjoying it. I just forgot one month to check for the prompt. Maybe I'll pick it up again now that it's October? Who knows)

Want for Lion by Paige Taggart -- I needed a book of poetry that sort of roared at me and this one did the trick. So much poetry feels passive or detached, not in a bad way, but this book comes at you like, "what?!" It's jazzy and spazzy and not always punctuated and worth reading if that's your thing. I'm glad it's mine.

The Self Unstable by Elisa Gabbert -- I very seriously had trouble not dog-earing every page or every other page of this collection of poems/lyric essay/prose poetry/what have you. This book really spoke to me, and it's something I both want to keep to myself and share with the world. I recommend this book to all modern writers and all modern livers. Anyone alive. Anyone who likes to read. I know this is a vague recommendation, but the book just talks to you. It's like a friend, but minus how cheesy that sounds.

Nestuary by Molly Sutton Kiefer -- This was a book of lyric essay that at first I thought I might not be able to read because... I am hypochondriac, and the poet discusses an issue she had with conceiving in the early pages of the book.

Little Known Facts by Christine Sneed -- This novel-in-stories focused mainly around the son of a divorced couple, a mother who is a doctor and father who is a famous actor, should be a movie. It wasn't one of those novels that I thought, "this novel would make a better movie", but one of those novels that made me think, "this novel would make a really cool movie." I read it on my Kindle, and I was glad Kathleen Rooney recommended it to me.

Antwerp by Roberto Bolaño -- I felt very "what the fuck" about this novel-- novella? About this strange collection of obviously linked prose pieces that were each titled with a number. It read almost like a novel-in-prose-poems, except there was no clear narrative, no clear beginning middle and end. What it seemed most like, the most time I spent with it, was a strange version of a script for an abstract film that has yet to be made about a crime that maybe was committed, the perpetuators/victims of this crime, and/or the detectives investigating it. I liked it, but I didn't like it. I liked the writing, but I constantly felt like I was doing a puzzle and there were pieces missing. 

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