For those of you playing along at home, you might remember that I had rather substantial plans for what I was going to read, or try to read, on DNBRD this past weekend. My list was long, and it was varied and I would have been happy to read something from even half of the books. It was not to be.
Here’s what I actually read:
- Four “art of X” interviews from the last two issues of the Paris Review: John McPhee, Ray Bradbury, R. Crumb, and David Mitchell. I can recommend them all, for different reasons. They reminded me that I should pick up a copy of Fahrenheit 451 and that I should order a copy of Mitchell’s new book, A Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.
- Most of A Thousand Peaceful Cities by Jerzy Pilch. Open Letter books never fail to please.
- Several essays from Orhan Pamuk’s Other Colors (which I nicked from my wife’s reading pile).
- A few chapters of Little Dorrit, which we’ve been reading out loud for more than a year now (at the pace of the original serial publication) and will finish this month.
- A few chapters of He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope; this is my bedtime reading. Nothing settles the mind into a peaceful state of sleep-readiness like Trollope.
So, what happened? I slept in, thereby losing valuable early morning quiet reading time. There was a rather important (at least to me) World Cup match on in the morning. Then the sun came out and my bicycle began whispering about the open road and was not to be denied. We made a huge lasagna to last the better part of the week. And finally, there was a bottle of chilled vinho verde to dull my already tired senses.
In the end, I’m going to blame the excess of sunlight (even though it rained most of the morning). It was an excellent summer Sunday, but certainly not a day on which I could do nothing but read.
How did your DNBRD turn out? Let us know in the comments.