Walk into my house and you’ll find books on most horizontal surfaces. And what a strange assortment. My tastes are quite eclectic, from the latest fiction (Ruth Ozeki’s “A Tale for A Time Being” comes to mind: brilliant!) to biographies (Ruth Reichl is yummy) to historical fiction (I loved “Doc”, “The Sandcastle Girls” was compelling) to non-fiction (how does Mary Roach make me laugh while learning about “yucky” stuff?). In fiction, I often gravitate towards rich emotional stories in faraway lands (anything by Khaled Hosseini, or “Memoir of a Geisha”) that offer me global experiences. Oh, how I adore Winnie the Pooh. Not to mention deep works of spirituality and religion.
I read cookbooks like they’re fiction (and they usually are: oh, those gorgeous photos of delectables that will never come out of my kitchen looking like that!). Anything written by Nigel Slater is an instant hit. Or Deborah Madison. Or Alice Waters.
I love how one book can lead me to the next in a completely different genre, opening up the world and her inhabitants to my view. I certainly hope reincarnation is a fact: there are too many books for me to read in just this one lifetime.
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