audiobooks are for lovers
I feel as though I ought to have news. But life these days is a quick succession of busy nothings. (Did Jane Austen ever actually write that or have I just gleaned it from films?)
There has been illness and snow and a procession of casseroles.
There are hopeful exciting moments of professional glee muddled by the regular trudge of daily tasks.
There are plans and trips and futures which feel real and yet ephemeral like the memory of sunshine.
And there are books. Oh, always there are books.
I am enjoying a very modernist bout of British writers whose poetical flourishes make my heart do loop-de-loops: more delicious Woolf; revisiting Ali Smith; and in our TV-less life, sharing cuddly evenings once or twice a week listening to the audiobook of Wolf Hall.
Yes, an hour here or there of reading isn’t filling all our Lenten deprivation with do-goodery wonders, but sharing a book seems to lend itself a quiet intimacy forgotten when we are glue to the screen.
A slower pace, more control over the timeline, and room to breathe and let my eyes wander. This sort of storytelling is painted with a different brush.
Not to mention our conversation becomes far more stimulating. We never talk about tv the way we do about fine novels. It’s such a special domestic bliss. Such a simple shared experience, and well of opportune ideas ready to be plucked like ripe fruit. You really ought to try it.
Que Sera Sara? 