More words than you can shake a stick at

Year’s end means lists, and lots of ’em. The only ones I feel obliged to skim are those recommended by people I know and those about books. Like these ones from The Penguin Blog!

Books, books, books. After 500 and many years of this perfect technology, is it possible that only now will new wine tear apart old skins?

The earth simply cannot take much more of the rampant deforestation that goes hand in glove with the (initially) cheaper way of printing, but the path of electrically charged media will just lead to a fossil-fueled dead end. And even if clean fuels become a clear and present reality, how can access be maintained in back-to-basics conditions, I ask you? No matter how precious a technology becomes, methinks the true test lies in its similarity to the cockroach, that is, its chances of surviving a nuclear winter.

But now, to add to the carnage, is my little list for the year:

  • This one turned out to be no child’s game; it blew my mind by inverting race in its looking glass; the ripples are still in my reflections — Noughts and Crosses by Majorie Blackman.
  • This one felt as luxurious as warm blankets and soft sheets on a cold night; my favourite children’s author back in top form — House of Many Ways by Diana Wynne Jones.
  • This one acted like a jolt up the cranium that bounced right back down to the gut; it filled in the cracks between the meagre breadth of my experiences in India; I was on the brink of bursting with despair and pity — The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga.

Well, hey, the library is your friend.


My home library in happier times

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