Thursday, June 24, 2010

Best Served Cold, by Joe Abercrombie

My reading accomplishments in the past months reflect the course of my existence in that time.

That is to say, very little reading has been accomplished, because while books can provide the world's best refuge and relaxation, sometimes the constraints on one's time require that more pressing concerns demand what remains of one's time.

Since my last post, I've been a woman with an explosive breast. I've fallen more in love, I've taken on a new job, I've wondered how permanent (or rather, temporary) this shift in work experience will be, and I've moved into a new residence. Dreams have crumbled. Others have taken root. My musical repertoire has expanded, as has my resume of concert attendance. Feelings have been hurt, wounded, damaged, stung, and they have been nurtured, tickled, inspired. I have encountered plenty of opportunities for growth (a term of which I became increasingly fond during the job interview process), and I like to believe I have seized on the best of them.

Sometimes, these weeks have overflown with passion and goodness. At other points, they've been hard as hell.

And at those points, thanks to this book, I can step back and say to myself, "At least I have not watched my brother brutally murdered, been myself thrown down a mountain, transformed into an aching cripple, and become consumed with a driving need for bloody, painful, reckless vengeance."

Always a brighter side, there is.