Uhgh. It's not often I can't gut out a book, no matter how poor, to the end, but I've been defeated by Salman Rushdie's Enchantress of Florence. I keep telling myself I can do it, but it's been days since I picked it up, and it's glaring at me like some evil beast of trivial literature. I am halfway through, but that doesn't lay any obligation on me, correct? Am I right? I mean I don't HAVE to finish every book. Today, I free myself of guilt, and I declare that I'm NOT GOING TO READ IT!
Funny, though, that Guignebert, whom I'm reading at the same time, formidable and dense, hasn't gotten me down. I'm nearly done, and as the timeline approaches the Enlightenment, with which I am naturally more familiar, it's becoming more, not less, enjoyable.
So scat Rushdie! I've got two books to choose from for my second reading--I always read two at once, because I leave one book upstairs and one down--The Romance of the Rose and The History of Scotland, both of which I'm itching to get my hands on. I expect The Art of Courtly Love to come in the mail today or tomorrow. I might wait to choose once I've sifted through that.
Ah, it's wonderful to be free again!