I thoroughly enjoyed The Instant Librarian‘s summary of her summer reading:
In each season, there’s a moment– maybe a few seconds, maybe a whole afternoon– when the approach of the next season makes itself known. The wind picks up in a day of stillness, dry leaves stir for the first time, some heavy scent– jasmine, orange blossom– drifts from an unseen vine. It’s the voice of a ghost or a vaguely familiar stranger in a dream. A distinct message clearly sounded and then gone.
There’s a part of me that listens and waits for the first sign. It must not be conscious, though, because each time it feels like a surprise and an absolute gift. There’s no science involved. Somehow it’s more pleasurable than witnessing the impressive energy of the seasons turning– the stormy battle of spring with winter, fall walking down the long dark staircase into winter.
Maybe growing up in southern California, season-starved and moody, I learned how to lean instinctively toward any subtle shift. More likely it’s a hunger we all have for the resonating of the natural world with our own unutterable feelings. I think I watch for the approach of fall because it acutely mirrors a piece of my love for living. Fall does a last-dance of loss I want to do but don’t have enough limbs for.
For now it’s summer, and not for long. I’ve been busy with work and plans and, of course, reading.
…
For the better part of June and July, I worked my way through The Brothers Karamazov. Snowy, suspenseful, gossipy, it was a great escape from sleeplessness in our sweltering room, an uninsulated closed porch sandwiched between neighbors’ yards. I read it in Portland while my sister read it in Los Angeles.
I highly recommend reading the full article here.
Image credit Cover Browser.





