Tempting, so tempting: My amazon.com cart overfloweth with $180’s worth of literary ecstacy. Anticipation argues with frugality in my mind; the need to read with nightmares of the last nine months. Scrolling back and forth, up and down the list there is an idiot’s delight in the diversity of my basket contents. Caesar, Marquez, McCarthy, Woolf. Sun Tzu, Saint Augustine, Joyce and…Emmylou?
Yes, Emmylou is story; flash fiction sung in new media form. As is Scratches, the game. There’s so much here and yet there’s still so much upon my hearth; though thirty books rise in the "already read" pile since late November.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Reach back to the mouse and scroll some more. I can’t decide. I can’t pick just a couple–enough to qualify for free shipping–from the list. Instead, I type in another new one, read a bit, and click "add it to my cart." Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God.
Addendum: Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, too. Oh cripes; I need something from Hemingway too.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology