The Embassy of Cambodia

The Embassy of Cambodia, by Zadie Smith. I know, short story. It’s giving me momentum though. 



The Alice Behind Wonderland

The Alice Behind Wonderland, by Simon Winchester. Bought for a bargain price. A short read, so don’t be fooled into thinking I’m now a voracious reader.


Beautiful Losers

I’ll avoid the critical essay (who needs another), suffice to say The Yellow Birds delivered on its initial promise, and the promise of those exuberant quotes on the back . A good start to this year’s reading life. Mortality is still my bedtime book, and a powerful way to end the day. I saw Hitch at the Hay-On-Wye festival. And Tony Curtis. I’m sure there’s something to be learnt from connections such as these. 



My daytime book is Beautiful Losers by Leonard Cohen, a book I started last year but stumbled over eighty pages in. I’m hoping for more stamina this time. If you’ve left a book on the shelf for a few months should you start again from the beginning? The bookmark is evidence that I’ve read eighty two but surely those pages are lost to this experience, or at least diminished?  

The Yellow Birds


I am weak, they are strong. The first crisp page always promises so much. So once again I am interrupted and start another book before I’ve finished another. They taunt and tease and always promise more than you have.

And so I start The Yellow Birds by Kevin Powers. The first 50 pages have delivered all that they promised. looking forward to embracing the book this weekend.



Finished reading Jesus’ Son last night. Limited my selection of next book to Mortality by Christopher Hitchens and Mirrors: Stories of Almost Everyone by Eduardo Galeano. I decided on Mortality, Mirrors losing out this time due to a nervousness that arose within me as I read the first few paragraphs. In short, I was scared. Far too early in the year to take such a risk.

Jesus’ Son


Currently reading Jesus’ Son by Denis Johnson on the Kindle. A little effort and it will be finished tonight. Tomorrow will therefore bring the thrill of choosing the next book, but with that thrill the insecurity of commitment. Once I’ve chosen, that’s my reading life for the next few days or weeks. By choosing one book I’m denying myself a thousand others. Is it better not to start a book and to always have the possibility of beginning a book?

A profound comment on the state of existence. Surely?