An unusually sore writing hand has given me an excuse to leave my calligraphy desk a little more than normal recently, and allowed me to indulge in one of my absolute favorite pastimes: rereading my favorite books. For me, rereading a favorite book is like being reunited with a long-lost best friend, late at night, in a field in Iceland, under the aurora borealis, while sitting on a Pendleton jacquard blanket, sipping strong African coffee poured from a thermos into vintage jadeite milk glass bowls, as curious reindeer stand at a distance watching us. In other words, my idea of perfection. Above, three of my favorites. From the top, with some favorite lines:
Magenta Soul Whip by Lisa Robertson From an interior space we heard the word sequin repeating in relation to leaves and the image was yellow-gold leaves moving on dark water.
The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke And still it is not yet enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them when they are many and one must have the great patience to wait until they come again. For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not till they have turned to blood within us, to glance and gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves — not till then can it happen that in the most rare hour the first word of a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
Between The Acts by Virginia Woolf The flower blazed between the angles of the roots. Membrane after membrane was torn. It blazed a soft yellow, a lambent light under a film of velvet; it filled the caverns behind the eyes with light. All that inner darkness became a hall, leaf smelling, earth smelling, of yellow light. And the tree was beyond the flower; the grass, the flower and the tree were entire.