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Today, I am thinking about oddly clear memories of reading experiences I’ve had.
Like the summer I read all of Malamud’s stories. I was staying in Iowa for a summer research fellowship into stem cells, and I checked out his big collected volume and read them all.
Like the summer I read all of Malamud’s stories. I was staying in Iowa for a summer research fellowship into stem cells, and I checked out his big collected volume and read them all.
It was a really hot summer, and my first time in the Midwest. 10 weeks. I lugged that huge book everywhere. And so when I think about that summer, I think about those stories. And playing tennis until like 10PM when the sun went down. Ugh. What a vibe.
Or the winter I read all of Mavis Gallant and the first three or so My Struggle books. 
Or the time I took my birthday off from lab, went to a Room of One’s Own to buy A Little Life, and I read it in one afternoon on the Union Patio. And exited the book feeling totally dazed.
Or the year before when I did the same thing except with In Light of What We Know, which was a truly strange and weird book, but also left me feeling drunk and hungover when it was done
Or the very long summers I spent reading Johanna Lindsey novels upside down in my grandpa’s chair.
Or the very weird winter as a teenager I spent reading Anne Rice and thinking I was going to hell, LOL.
And of course the drugged month I spent reading The Princr of Tides in high school, a book that never seemed to end and seemed to change constantly, and honestly, I’m still not over the fact that Pat Conroy died.
