Tag: reading

The Journal

So, beyond the obvious, one great reason to start keeping a journal is because it’s great competition. Instead of answering the question, “How many books did you read last year?” (basically a Johnson-size contest for the literary nerd) with the vague “I don’t know, I think about 10 to 15”, you now can have a definite answer.
Three years ago, I read 10 books. In 2011 and 2012, I read 16 each. That’s progress, folks.

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Dead Tree Readers

It’s the nature of Eden to be recognized only when you are leaving it. The studious, private, tactile appropriation of the text in the self-imposed isolation of a physical book, shielded from the ten thousand-eyed monster of marketing, may become a rare experience, celebrated by a bereft band of book connoisseurs, dead tree readers.

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The March Pile

I finally got my hands on the much talked about Other People We Married by Emma Straub, and it sits quietly on my desk like a coiled snake. She’s everywhere, and seems to be more plugged in with what’s going on in the book world than almost anyone I know.

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Over There

Three Guys One Book has more readers in New York City than any other place. But one of the places that we have a concentration of readers is London. Three Guys is read in over 50 countries. That’s not such a big deal for a noted book blog. Most book blogs of some reputation have a global readership.

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When Robots Can Read, Will You Still Want To?

Imagine that forming a home library was a kind of horticulture. Imagine books without writers. Here’s how it might work: You lay out for yourself a fine selection of bookshelves in a sunny room. You water the shelves appropriately and then leave time for the books to germinate and start to grow on their own! If you had a fine basement library like my good friend JC, then you could grow books like mushrooms, direct from the fungus!

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Montaigne Reads A Book

Tell me how you read and I’ll tell you who you are. It’s the most common type of readership that we want to avoid. But we are all guilty of engorging an enormous hunk of text into our brains and letting nothing come out. It’s like sitting down to a gourmet meal at a friend’s house and then when it comes time to clean up, refusing to join in.

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Chris Offutt – Welcome & WWFIL

I suppose I was lucky. My father owned hundreds of books, many from his own childhood in a log cabin, raised by a former schoolteacher. Lucky insofar as my experience was the ideal breeding ground for a writer—a classic over-sensitive misfit, no good at sports, smartest kid in school—living in an isolated world of national forest, dirt roads, trickling creeks, and unemployed men with guns.

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When We Fell In Love – Mark Safranko

It was the 1950s, Trenton, New Jersey. Gray. Dismal. Depressing. Trenton isn’t New York or Philadelphia, but rather a poor relation, and like many other grungy northeastern municipalities that have seen their best days pass into history, it was a city long on its way south. Aside from The Bible and those gossip rags, there wasn’t anything else in sight to read. Instead, we had the Friday Night Fights and The Honeymooners on the old black and white Zenith. The word culture was never uttered.

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When We Fell In Love – Bob Thurber

But here’s the thing: one day my English teacher spotted the paperback on my desk. She asked me if I was reading 1984 for another class. I said no. She asked me if I liked it. I said it was pretty good but some parts were hard to understand. The next day she brought in her personal copy of Brave New World and lent it to me.

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Why We Love What We Do – Eric Obenauf – Two Dollar Radio

I was bartending at the time, earning more money than I really deserved. The bar was across the street from the harbor. Apart from the local crowd, the bar catered to the out-of-town yuppies on their way to or from sport-fishing trips, and the uber-wealthy who’d get tanked on their sailboats in the morning and stop by for a drink after coming ashore, still rocking on their sea-legs. Rich old men don’t like to get cut off by the snotty-nosed bartender.

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Someday I'm Gonna Be A Dead White Guy

Exhibit B: Maria Semple’s dark, hilarious, acerbic debut, This One is Mine. Is that a pink bon-bon on the cover? Really? Is that a fucking joke? I read that book twice–where did they get a pink bon-bon? Seriously, marketing people, what’s with the double standard?

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