For all eight of you that have followed this, I apologize for my inconsistencies. It's been an interesting few months of summer. I've learned a lot about myself and life. And I've been wondering about everything concerning knowledge, and the reading of books, and the obscurity that all information can bring.
Here's what's been accomplished in July, August, and September:
July:
Dandelion Wine
Ghosts
Kafka's Parables and Paradoxes
Give me a "J"
An Enemy of the People
The Wild Duck
Till We Have Faces
August:
Light in August
WWI British Poets
The Bronze Bow
Philosophy
Stella
Love Poems: Emily Dickenson
W.H. Auden: Selections
Mere Christianity
10 Books That Screwed up the World
Lord of the Flies
Sept:
Animal Farm
1984
Blood Meridian
The Raid
White Noise
The Giver
The Crucible
The Art of War
The Grapes of Wrath
Sophie's World
The Screwtape Letters
Emily Dickinson Poetry
It seems that September has been a month of death in the midst of what I've been reading. I didn't choose it such intentionally, but nevertheless so. It is the one thing that human beings cannot avoid: along with birth. It would seem that I have nothing else to add.
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