It was so hard to get up this morning and go to work. Monday after a long holiday weekend is one of the universe’s cruel jokes. I spent my four days doing a lot of reading. Unfortunately not much of it was of the fun kind. But on the bright side, all of my research for my final project is done. Now I just have to write the paper.

I did get to do some reading in the evening. I finished The Enormous Room just before the holiday and will write about it this week. I have also finished part one of 2666. I am really liking this book and maybe I will come up with some kind of summation this week. The summation will admittedly be more for myself so I can set in place the events of part one and not forget them by the time I get to the end. Because it seems to me this is a book with many winding paths and somehow all of them relate in one way or other.

I had been reading 2666 on the train but it is such a big book and the weather has turned cold that juggling big book, bag, mittens, etc, was getting to be too much work not to mention trying to keep the book from getting damp from snow/sleet/freezing rain. So today I started reading a book of short stories recommended to me many months ago in an email from a reader named Naama. The book, A Scrap of Time and Other Stories by Ida Fink, is turning out to be quite good. The stories are Holocaust stories so not exactly cheery but they are a good antidote to the over abundance of cheesy cheer that tends to accumulate this time of year. But while the subject matter is sad, the writing is gorgeous. For a taste, her is the first paragraph of the titular story that also happens to be the first story in the book:

I want to talk about a certain time not measured in months and years. For so long I have wanted to talk about this time, and not in the way I will talk about it now, not, just about this one scrap of time. I wanted to, but I couldn’t, I didn’t know how. I was afraid, too, that this second time, which is measured in months and years, had buried the other time under a layer of years, that this second time had crushed the first and destroyed it within me. But no. Today, digging around in the ruins of memory, I found it fresh and untouched by forgetfulness. This time was measured not in month but in a word–we no longer said “in the beautiful month of May,” but “after the first ‘action,’ or the second, or right before the third.” We had different measures of time, we different ones, always different, always with that mark of difference that moved some of us to pride and others to humility. We, who because of our difference were condemned once again, as we had been before in our history, we were condemned once again during this time measured not in months nor by the rising and setting of the sun, but by a word–”action,” a word signifying movement, a word you would use about a novel or a play.

The story goes on and we learn the word “action” is used to describe the rounding up of the Jews in the narrator’s village. They did not know why they were supposed to gather in the market square. Then the rumor circulated that they were going to be taken to a labor camp down the road. They were herded into trucks, driven out to the woods near the village, made to dig a mass grave and then were all shot.

Like I said, not exactly cheery reading. But the stories I have read so far have all been good. It is a slim book and probably won’t take me long to read so you’ll be hearing more about these stories in a week or so.

In my head lately I’ve been shuffling around books for my end of year holiday book reading binge. I will have sixteen work-free, school-free days at the end of December. A little slice of heaven to look forward to.

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