Today is Friday the 13th. The countryside is silent and deserted, and there is not a soul around. We are all sitting tight waiting for the second shoe to drop. At five pm my weekend will begin, and I will have a cup of tea and start a book. I have allowed too long external circumstances to spoil my everyday life. Like Steve Perry said, we’ve got to be good to ourselves.
A few days back I spotted a special offer on Amazon, and for less than three bucks (including delivery) I got me a paperback copy of The Magic Toyshop, by Angela Carter, in the classic Virago Modern Classics edition.
I have so far missed this novel, and what struck me was this: this book came out in the year of my birth, ergo we are both 52 at the moment – and for a strange coincidence, Angela Carter died at 52, in 1992, when I was 25, and living in the UK.
Not bad, as the premise for the decision to read a book about magic and reality.
Which is meaningless, of course – we can find patterns everywhere, but I liked the idea of reading Carter again, I liked the cover, the price, and I always found Carter’s language incredibly compact and yet light – so this will be a good opportunity to learn something new.
And read a good book.
WE should always have a good book to read, or a good story to tell.