One of the things that I appreciate most about this sabbatical is having all the time in the world to read, read and read. I have been devouring books at a rate unseen since I was about 12 years old and enjoying every moment of it. When I was at that age, I would tuck myself in bed with numerous pillows and cups of tea, reading every spare moment that I had. My reading appetite gradually decreased and shrunk to almost nothing when I started working.
I used to read mostly Western authors, but recently, I have started dipping into the works of authors of other nationalities, such as Turkish author Orhan Pamuk, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, a young up-and-coming Nigerian writer, Yukio Mishima and Yasunari Kawabata, both prominent Japanese authors. I have also finally read (and enjoyed every bit of) Anna Karenina – a book that has been sitting on my to-read-pile since 10 years ago – from start to end.
I get all my reading recommendations from the various book blogs that I have been following. Whenever I come across a book recommendation that sounds promising, I go to the NLB website and reserve the book immediately. For $1.55, the book gets delivered to the library nearest my home where I can easily pick it up. Love our public libraries.
A couple of the best reads that I’ve come across during this period of time is the Inspector Singh series, by Malaysian writer Shamini Flint and the Vish Puri private detective series set in India authored by Tarquin Hall. I’ve always been a sucker for mystery-type books. They are such fun and light reads, but with good content and delightful plot-driven characters. I am always in need of such books after a heavy going one and I find myself hungering for more light, fluffy reading.
I have been digressing. What I wanted to jot down here is my progress in my Murakami reading project. I’ve read 10 of his books (those that have been translated into English) so far and have just one or two more to go before I wrap this up. It has been really satisfying reading experience.
I’m now ploughing through Orhan Pamuk’s The Museum of Innocence and wondering why the heck is he going on and on for a godzillion pages about the protaganist’s lovesickness over being abandoned by his younger (and illicit) lover after his engagement party (with someone else).
Next, I want to give Dickens a try.