In winter, we are called inside ...

 

      In the high summer, we want to be outside and active; in winter, we are called inside ... Winter is when I reorganise my bookshelves and read all the books I acquired in the previous year and failed to actually read. It is also the time when I reread beloved novels, for the pleasure of reacquainting myself with old friends. In summer, I want big splashy ideas and trashy page-turners, devoured while lounging in a garden chair or perching on one of the breakwaters on the beach. In winter, I want concepts to chew over in a pool of lamplight -- slow, spiritual reading, a reinforcement of the soul. Winter is a time for libraries, the muffled quiet of bookstacks and the scent of old pages and dust. In winter, I can spend hours in silent perusal of a half-understood concept or a detail of history. There is nowhere else to be, after all.
      Winter opens up time. ...

from Wintering: the power of rest and retreat in difficult times, 

by Katherine May

  

In the almost-morning

 

      Once I abandon the fight to return to sleep and claim my wakefulness, I can find a slanting love for this part of the night, the almost-morning. ... Mostly I read at this hour. perusing the pile of books that live by my favorite chair, waiting to offer up fragments of learning, rather then inviting cover-to-cover pursuits.  I browse a chapter here, a segment there, or hunt through an index for a matter that's on my mind. I love such loose, exploratory reading. For once, I am not reading to escape; instead, having already made my getaway, I am able to roam through the extra space I've found. as restless and impatient as I like ... They say thay we should dance like one is watching. I think that applies to reading, too.

from Wintering:  the power of rest and retreat in difficult times,
by Katherine May

{The painting is 'Winter Primula,' by Winifred Nicholson.}

Anticipation: Biography edition

 

Oh, yes, please!  I don't see a U.S. publication date but it looks like it will be out in the UK in April. I shan't wait.

Favorites from this year

 

For me, this was unquestionably a strange year for reading, for reasons beyond the pandemic, but I loved these five books (listed in the order that they were read) and greatly enjoyed many others ... and because this year was sort of a missed opportunity, I'm especially looking forward to all the reading I'll do next year. :)

Thank you for visiting this year, and for sharing books with me here and in other places ... and I hope you have a safe and especially happy new year.

 

Before the snow goes...

 

This is what I love about experiencing the world at walking pace:  the small but significant luxury of having the time and headspace to notice details that make me feel part of my surroundings, a sense of belonging rather than passing through.

from Thinking on my feet:  the small joy of putting
one foot in front of another, by Kate Humble

A lovely book to be walking with! 

Elf on a (book)shelf

 

My Christmas spirit definitely needs some boosting this year, but I'm getting there -- with the snow, and some extra time off before Christmas to bake cookies, and most of all, with the early gift of very easy and brilliantly successful surgery to fix a vision impairment that emerged earlier this fall. I can read again!! 

And with lovely bookish friends. I've already started a Christmas mystery by a favorite author (thanks to Frances!), and that started me thinking about looking for more Christmas books.  And that started me wondering about an Anthony Trollope Christmas book of some kind that I vaguely remembered from a few years ago, when I first went Trolloping with JoAnn.  And there it was, on my bookshelf.  It was either there and forgotten all along, or there was an elf.  I know which one I'm going to believe in. 🎄 

'...so delectable that it cannot be missed'

There is something almost outlandishly generous about the act of offering away the best of something — we humans are so innately selfish — rather than keeping it for yourself. And it was always like that with her:  whoever has the good fortune of sitting at her side at a meal will be offered something from her plate — but only if it’s so delectable that it cannot be missed. She would allow herself only a piece of the second best peach, the subpar pear, the plum that needed another day, so that her company might taste the very best fruit. It was like that with everything, really:  the perfect morsel of lobster claw that slid from its pincer shell. Anything that took effort, that might be messy but whose taste was a reward — she would do the dirty work and turning to me, give it away. … These were delights harvested or prepared especially for me. There was a knowingness in it, though, as if she were saying, ‘I’ve been here before. I’ve sipped the ambrosia. It’s tour turn now.’ I do wonder whether this is typical of motherhood or of the love that attends that role. I can’t yet venture an opinion, but I suspect the impulse is more driving in my mom’s case than in most. 

from Always Home:  a daughter's recipes and stories, 

by Fanny Singer

I just started this lovely book, which just arrived from the library, for my Kindle, months after I put it on reserve.  (All things to be grateful for.) Fanny Singer's mother is Alice Waters, of Chez Panisse, nnd her book is filled with food (of course) and love,

The painting is Still Life (Table with Bowl of Fruit), by Pierre Bonnard