Weekly Readings

What with the holiday travels, there hasn't been much time to listen to audio books.

The two regular books I've managed to tackle were both acquired from the free bin at the local library, which says something about their quality. Possibly, it also says something about the quality of people who're presently moving, cleaning their bookshelves, or are recently deceased.
There is something extremely alluring about free literature. Not just the price, mind you, but the kind of second-hand aura- this time you hold in your hand? Someone's already picked it up. Read it. Cast it aside. Unfortunately, the selection leaves something to be desires-- about 70% of all books that end up in the free bin are romance novels.

"The Mother's Day Murder"
By Wensley Clarkson
AKA- "A treatise on dumb people."
Rating: 8/10
I picked this up with a handful of romance novels. The romance novels were barely glanced at before being returned to the free bin, but this little guy was actually read through. It's your basic true-crime novel. If it carries any moral to it, it is this: "Asking teenagers to murder your husband is a Bad Idea". A tale of a mildly insane woman with a deceased daughter, a living son, and a string of younger lovers takes a turn for the worse when the woman realizes that her husband's worth more dead than alive. The stupidity of it all burns the retinas, but it's not a half bad read, if you're looking for something light and inconsequential.


"Selected Poetry of Lord Byron"
Edited by Leslie A. Marchand
AKA- "Literary bliss."
Rating: ? (In progress of reading.)
When I was a kid back in Russia, I thoroughly enjoyed poetry. It was somewhat of a tradition in my family to memorize long un's and recite them on the long trips, or when an occasion arose. However, I'm not at all familiar with English poets; my stock of memorized English-language verses consists merely of "Crusader's Return" from Ivanhoe, that Durin ballad from Lord of the Rings ("The world was young, the mountains green/No stain yet on the moon was seen), and a ditty from The Last Unicorn. Which means that I'm overdue for another, likely by this Victorian Englishman. He writes like other people sing.