Reading Books

I feel like nearly all I've done since I've been back home is read books. Granted, Jimmy and I have gone out during the evenings, but I think I've probably spent considerably more hours with my books than I have with Jimmy during the past few days. I finished Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles last night and then started on James Weldon Johnson's Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man. While Hardy's works are rather slow reads with a certain strangeness (dare I say coldness and morbidity) to them, I think I rather like them. So far I like the Johnson book as well, but I'm going to set that one aside for a while as it's on the list for next week. I got confused and started in on the wrong text...so now I'm getting ready to start on Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth. The only other work by Wharton that I've ever read is Ethan Frome, and I definitely liked that one.

Ah well, books are my life. Sometimes (especially when I'm boxing up things and moving) I think I should have chosen a lighter profession....