Two books have been traveling with me for many months. Each is being read slowly, savored. Allowed to resonate. One,
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte, is a shared reading with friends. Every Wednesday afternoon a phone book club is held, discussing a few chapters at a time. Speculations arise as to the fate of our characters. Astonishment at what has transpired within the plot is shared. General appreciation for the craft of the author is remarked.
The second,
The Paper Garden by Molly Peacock, has also been read in a similar slow fashion. Bits at a time. In a way one might consider it a book club reading of sorts. Alicia Paulson
mentioned it on her blog
Posie Gets Cozy. I suspect many of her reader did as I did and found a copy for myself. Mine came from the local library. Their policy on renewals of checked out items being limited to three has forced me to return the book a couple of times. It's a book to be read slowly. To browse longingly over the beautiful detail of Mary Delany's paper floral "mosaicks."
In the still, unhurried quality of reading, these books have sat with me on park lawns, in restaurants, on a cozy sofa, under the trees of my back garden. These little editions have traveled. It makes me ponder about the words themselves. Where have they been as they were being written by the writers? What places have readers found themselves reading these lovely molded sentences? Where will the travel to next?
