After that, I read Elsa Morante's History. On every other page, it broke my heart. I honestly don't know how to describe this novel. These things that we do to each other, the fact that we are actual people doing this to each other, these small stories that are our lives interwoven with the much bigger ones happening all around us, and also the power and powerlessness of history itself...She writes about it. You should read it.
I spent this weekend with Sidney Sheldon; when I was around twelve I loved, loved, loved his books and in a thrift shop in my hometown I came across one that I used to obsess over called Tell me your dreams. Was so much fun to read it as a 25-year-old woman as opposed to a twelve-year-old girl this time around. While I've changed my mind about a few things (honestly, did Sheldon even like women?) I have to say that he knew how to tell a good story. I also read The best laid plans by Sheldon as well. Hadn't read that one before, and it really wasn't very good. However, that does not contradict what I wrote earlier. It just wasn't my type of story. The best one has to be If tomorrow comes though. That book is fucking brilliant, I have to read it again.
Now I'm reading The stranger's child by Alan Hollinghurst.
Let's end this weirdly structured blog post with a random picture that my best friend took of me. Here I am, happy and drunk while waiting for my fiancé to get back from a trip:
