I just went back and read all these old book reviews I wrote 3-5 years ago, and the rest going back to 2000. I'm in New York and sad and broken and missing my bed and dogs and friends and library and so I went to the bookstore and bought paperback copies of three of my favorite books, Invisible Cities, Jesus' Son, and Autobiography of Red. A cup of tea plus words I'd read so many times before and my soul felt warm and wooly and home, even without the dogs and slippers, and housed as it is in this banal IKEA-furnished apartment on the Upper West Side.

I started photographing the books I've read, but realize now I should take the time to write them up again, if only because the palest ink is better than the strongest memory, a Chinese proverb I'm fond of. To have read a book, and to have gained something from it, and to be able recover that something years later is like sending gifts to your future self. So I'll start with a brief blurb about In The Woods, while it's still clear in my memory.

LINK | 7:24 PM | TB

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