Hooray for Old(er) Books
Lately I’ve amazed myself by finishing several books. My usual habit is to make frequent trips to the library, check out lots of books, start reading lots of books, but never finish any.
When I read fiction, I find myself preferring older books. I’m presently on an older mystery jag. I’ve read several books by the Lockridges. From there I moved on to Nero Wolfe mysteries. I recently finished The Mother Hunt and Might as Well be Dead, by Rex Stout .
Yesterday I found some support for ignoring newer fiction:
Now I have a new blog that I’m addicted to, Anecdotal Evidence.
Oh - and I'm presently reading Fail Safe from 1962.
When I read fiction, I find myself preferring older books. I’m presently on an older mystery jag. I’ve read several books by the Lockridges. From there I moved on to Nero Wolfe mysteries. I recently finished The Mother Hunt and Might as Well be Dead, by Rex Stout .
Yesterday I found some support for ignoring newer fiction:
In addition, the past is a much bigger place than the present, so it follows that most worthwhile books were published not last week but some time in the previous three millennia. Every minute devoted to reading the new and middling is a minute spent languishing away from the old and dependably superior.
Now I have a new blog that I’m addicted to, Anecdotal Evidence.
Oh - and I'm presently reading Fail Safe from 1962.
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