Naturally, when I went to the library earlier this week, I didn’t limit myself to the Spiderwick books, though I did limit myself to the children’s section.
Aside: I’m generally in the children’s section or in the 746 section of adult nonfiction. Is there any other non-librarian out there who knows what the 746 section is? Without Googling it.
Because I’ve been writing silly verses lately, I checked out several kids’ poetry books, including old favorites, A Pizza the Size of the Sun, by Jack Prelutsky, and Science Verse, by Jon Scieszka. Mike picked up the Prelutsky book, started to chuckle, then shared his amusement by reading to me what he’d just read to himself. I oozed over onto the couch with him and before long we had laughed our way through three-quarters of the book. What fun! We both enjoy it, but it has quite opposite effects on us: I want to write my own silly verses, and Mike thinks it’s impossible to top what we’re reading so no point trying. Hrmph. Head in the clouds, feet in the mud–that’s us!
We are finishing Book 2 of Little Dorrit, by Charles Dickens. We read Book 1 over Christmas, then put it aside while Mike met various work obligations. We picked it up again last week and hope to finish it this week. It’s not my favorite Dickens book–that would be David Copperfield, followed closely by Nicholas Nickleby, then Great Expectations–but there’s plenty to like about it. Dickens gets on his political soapbox in his description of the Circumlocution Office, which is extensive, but it’s hilarious. Has a feeling of Mark Twain about it, IMO. The good girl, Little Dorrit, is tooth-achingly sweet and duller than politics–er, the Circumlocution Office–but that’s Dickens for you. That must be his view of the perfect woman. Bleh.
We’re getting toward the end, and as usual, we have a giant cast of characters whose paths need to start connecting. I have guesses as to what will happen and how it will all work out, but I expect I’ll be wrong. I hope I’m wrong. I like to be surprised.
My before-bed book is Double Identity, by Margaret Peterson Haddix. The premises of her books are always so interesting and unusual. I’m a fan!