New Year, New Confessions.

I've been doing quite a bit of reading as of late, as I find I tend to devour books while traveling. When I first arrived in the UK, I figured I'd read as the British do and opted for the likes of Oscar Wilde, Ian McEwan, and Kazuo Ishiguro. You know, keep it respectable.

After acquiring a stack of 10 books in the past 2 months alone, I realized this simply wasn't sustatinable. Luckily, my family stepped in and presented me with a little something by way of Amazon.

Now that I have a Kindle, I find myself reading through a series of embarrassing books. Books I would never actually buy in tactile form. I have the luxury to do this behind the safe facade of said Kindle.

I feel as though being a card-carrying member of the Authors@Google team prohibits me from reading such drivel, but yeahh.. no.

This includes a selection of chick lit, of which anything post-Bridget Jones era is generally unadvisable, save for maybe The Nanny Diaries or Something Borrowed. Oh, and if you see the words Plum Sykes on the cover, run far, far away.

Once upon a time, I'll admit I was a bit obsessed. In all fairness, this was in high school / early college and coincided with my Korean drama phase, and really, what girl is in her right mind during high school? And I admit I find myself curious to see what Becky Bloomwood is up to on an annual basis.

Moving right along to Dan Brown. Ugh.. Dan Brown. Enough said.

But really, after skimming chapter after chapter in increased annoyance, I couldn't help but think, surely The DaVinci Code couldn't have been this bad? I suppose it was fresher then (but still poorly written) by some professor who fancies himself as Indiana Jones.

And now on to the Sarah Palin memoir. I have to admit, I was curious. When I first got wind of the book deal, I was appalled. Not at all shocked, but very appalled. HarperCollins, how could you? But nine chapters into her Wasilla Warriors basketball games and Miss Alaska pageantry, moving on to her courtship with Todd, I'm actually kind of charmed.

I'm often wary of political memoirs, except maybe Dreams from My Father, as I'm convinced it was written pre- any kind of major political ambition, much less the presidency. I have no illusions that this is another Palin action item in framing her path to the Oval Office.. or so she hopes (with maybe a Fox News anchor-ship as an added bonus). And I still don't agree with her politics. But it takes guts to fight the Boy's Club and serve her state and explain herself to an America that sees only Tina Fey's (brilliant) caricatures. And that deserves [a fraction] of more respect than she's been given by us armchair critics.

But then again, I'm only 11% done. We'll see how I feel come lipstick and campaign time, Mavvvvvrick.

Like I said, new year, new confessions. But surprisingly, what I'm finding amidst these guilty pleasures is a renewed perspective.

Another One Bites the Dust.

I walked by this bookstore the other day, and jarringly found myself face-to-face with this:

It's a sad thing when independent bookstores close. I used to love this bookstore. While not Kramerbooks & Afterwords (my most favorite bookstore ever) or even Green Apple, this neighborhood storefront held a special place in my Cole Valley-nestled heart. After any trip down Irving, I'd more often than not stop by, get lost in the selection of both new and lovingly used tomes, the lithographs.. and eventually wander out emptyhanded. Most often, it was the simple matter of not having my wallet handy, having just returned from a jog. Other times, it was due to the jotting down of mental notes - mental notes to later purchase the books on Amazon, discounted, I confess. 

I'm the reason these stores are closing. 

Black Oak Books, may you rest in peace. I loved you; I only wish I had showed it at the time.

Reading Rainbow.

I like to buy things. In fact, I like to buy many things. I go through periods where I'll stockpile anything from CDs to stationery to vintage rock t-shirts. These are subject to change according to mood and stage in life, of course, but the one thing that remains constant is books. I love used book stores: Green Apple, City Lights, Pegasus, Black Oak. Pages lovingly worn and vintage hardcover editions for a fraction of the price. I can never say no to a book, and I spend a ridiculous amount of money on literature because after all, how can you put a price on knowledge and culture?

From my stint as an English major to my overflowing bookshelf, everything about me suggests that I voraciously read. Having run out of room on my [strictly decorational] fireplace mantel, I have resorted to amassing piles by my CD collection and even more piles under my bed. That's not to say that I actually ever get around to reading, however. What I've realized is this: I buy books primarily to place impressively and ever-so-thoughtfully upon my mantel. And when I'm feeling especially artistic, I'll rotate the featured display, as if visually merchandising a boutique window. Books strategically purchased for what they represent, from the aesthetics (who doesn't judge a book by its cover?) to the eclectic genres, creating a telling persona without me having to even open my mouth.

Case in point: I walked into Barnes & Noble one day and stumbled upon newly designed pocket editions of Francis Bacon's On Empire and Plato's The Symposium - essentials for any self-respecting intellectual. Inspired and on a self-betterment campaign, I took the two books straight to the counter and promptly whipped out my credit card. Once the transaction was completed, I felt instantly smarter. Visions of grandeur and culture, of being engaged in philosophic discussions about shadows against a cave wall and what they represent.. all spurred by a lovely handpressed fleur-de-lys motif adorning a book cover. Will I ever study said manuals? Who knows? But should I ever have the desire, I have the option to.

Maybe it was my upbringing. While riddled to guilt at even the suggestion of shopping anywhere other than TJ Maxx, my parents would shell out the big bucks for anything with a binding. It was an educational investment, they said.

And so I continue to buy. Just this weekend, I bought seven*.

I don't know when the last time I actually read was. I simply don't have the time. My productivity ratio for the past month breaks down as follows: 10 books purchased to 1 fashion magazine perused. I recently ordered subscriptions to the New Yorker and the Economist as an alternative, but I wonder if I'll even get around to thumbing through those. If I were more practical, I suppose I would finish what I owned before carting home another dozen. But I'm not, so I can't, then I won't but.. continue to be anything other than idiosyncratic me.

-----------------------

* Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie, The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood, The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green by Joshua Braff, Mountain Man Dance Moves (McSweeney's book of lists), and This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald, in case you were wondering (but most likely weren't).