I went into Myopic Books on Saturday, on my jaunt through the neighborhood on the lovely afternoon. Going into used bookstores within a week of moving? Probably not the best idea. (I can already see my mother's eyes rolling, don't buy any more books! Which is only ironic, but it is probably coming from a place of true knowledge. But sometimes, the genes win out over common sense.)
Anyhow, I cruised in there and snooped around the stacks of new arrivals. Not biting anything there, I peeked in the narrow stacks of fiction. Myopic has 2 1/2 levels. There is a little middle floor with the beginning of the alphabet-- it reminds me of the half floor in Being John Malkovitch. I was up there for some specific author that now slips my mind and I thought of Daphne DuMaurier for some reason, or maybe I was in the D's? Anyhow, I found this book of short stories, The Birds and Other Stories. The Birds? As in the Hitchcock film? I thought it must be, since she wrote Rebecca and Jamaica Inn, but I was so surprised this nugget had slipped by me in my Hitchcock phase (which overlapped with my first reading about the second Mrs. DeWinter). And I was correct! She wrote the short story that was the basis for the film! Obviously I had to buy this book and her first novel, right?
Now, I don't want to ruin this story for anyone, because if you like spine-tingling tales, this is for you. I read it on the way to and from work on Monday. The morning was beautiful and clear, as was the afternoon. It still scared the crap out of me. Seriously, she insinuates herself so well into your subconscious and you see everything through the protagonist's eyes and mind. The story is different from the film, and very short. It takes place in a small coastal English town instead of California. Read it, really.
Here is a description from the beginning of the story, at midday with hero watching the birds fly at sea.
Autumn was the best for this, better than spring. In spring the birds flew inland, purposeful, intent; they knew where they were bound, the rhythm and ritual of their life brook no delay. In autumn those that had not migrated overseas but remained to pass the winter were caught up in the same driving urge, but because the migration was denied them followed a pattern of their own. Great flocks of them came to the peninsula, restless, uneasy, spending themselves in motion; now wheeling, circling in the sky, now settling to feed on the rich new-turned soil, but even when they fed it was as though they did so without hunger, without desire. Restlessness drove them to the skies again.
I recently read my first P.G. Wodehouse book, Something Fresh. Mannion is right again. I have a notion, though, that I want to read the series in order. I don't feel this is strictly necessary, since there are *so* many books, but it's an odd thing I want to accomplish. Please tell me if this is crazy and totally unnecessary.
I'm currently listening to The Weepies' album Say I Am You. I am embarrassed to say that I first heard of them from Mandy Moore's most recent Celebrity Playlist on iTunes. She has pretty good taste in music for a pop starlet.
Also, since I'm airing laundry, I have figured out a block for me in blogging, which is really obvious. When I type out my bloggy bits, I usually can't help myself from adding in links as I write. This is very disruptive to my train of thought! I get half way through a sentence and completely forget my pithy comment! So I'm trying to stop this. I just wanted you all to know.
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