Here's where it starts this time: I just finished The Hunger Games and Catching Fire. Which were excellent. Really, really excellent. Excellent in the way that I felt like I was nursing an open wound throughout the days it took to read them. Excellent in that now I think of nothing else, and as I run, and I spend miles piecing together plot and reviewing characters. Like I said, excellent.
This is the problem. I'm too impressionable--when it comes to books.
The Hunger Games is the most recent, but definitely not the first, or even the worst. I remember reading Catcher in the Rye, and cursing in my head and self-narrating for weeks. Days after reading While Oleander, I imaged myself staring out at the world through hollow, haunted eyes. The combination of Anne of Green Gables and Little Women made me a homebody for an entire summer.
I suppose it's part of the reason reading is so important to me, because I give myself over to a story so completely. Or, I do when I feel the story has worth (because I'm also a snob about books--and, let's be frank--about lots of other things, too). I suppose it's a little over-dramatic to talk about how the way I read allows me to experience, really emotionally experience, living another life by proxy, but, I ask you, how else would you explain me wandering the aisles of Ikea, tense, paranoid, and lonely like Katniss is lonely?
I want to meet Suzanne Collins, so I can thank her for giving me such a breathless week, and also, so I can ask her what she's trying to do to me, and how she expects me to handle this kind of stress.
In any case, I'm done, and I'm reading Jane Eyre to cleanse my system, because Jane's incessant preaching is bound to do that. Then I'm going to read something totally banal, like shampoo bottles. And then that's it. I'm quitting reading. I just can't handle the pressure.
well, maybe I'll finish Gone with the Wind. and then I have the Strand 80. And then, of course, Mockingjay comes out August 24th, so...
*photo Strand Bookstore, NYC