Wasn’t talking ’bout me…

Another day, another book. Seriously; I have a problem. An obsession, of sorts.

I recently scooped up this pile, which includes two Deluxe Anniversary Editions of books I already own (Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein) which can’t be resisted thanks to their kitschy cover art.

What’s more, there’s Dian Fossey’s Gorillas in the Mist; my mum owned a hard copy when I was a child, and read me excerpts from the book when I was in the fourth grade and working on a project on the beloved Fossey. Eventually, our dog, the incredible black lab Shadow, ate up the book and that was that. Seeing it recently featured in a bookstore, I scooped it up, figuring this time around I’m not in fourth grade and can actually read it–cover to cover.

There’s also Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is Hard to Find, even though I have her complete works in one volume; as well as Anne Sexton’s Transformations, T.S Elliot’s Murder in the Cathedral, Hansjorg Schertenleib’s A Happy Man, and Gene Wilder reading Gene Wilder’s Kiss Me Like a Stranger. There’s honestly nothing better than Gene Wilder on Gene Wilder, really.

File Under: What Steve Jobs? People don’t ready anymore?

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