I was 100 pages into Helen Simonson’s “The Summer Before the War” when I remembered there was a war.
I was 100 pages into Helen Simonson’s “The Summer Before the War” when I remembered there was a war.
Sabaa Tahir’s “A Torch Against the Night” began on this enthusiastic note with reading buddy Brooke:
@cjhannas Bring on the crazy YA-angstventures!— Brooke Shelby (@txtingmrdarcy) September 8, 2016
“Tell me what you think. I got 30 pages in and I’m close to giving up.”
My friend emailed me that in reference to Dave Eggers’ “Heroes of the Frontier.” I was on page 25 at the time, and I could definitely understand the sentiment.
I have no interest in living in a haunted house.
I knew that before reading David Mitchell’s “Slade House,” but now I’m more sure of my stance on the issue.
Before I started reading Haruki Murakami’s “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running,” I had already decided to run every day this month.
It’s never a bad idea to step back and re-examine conventional wisdom. After all, just because things have been done the same way doesn’t mean that’s the best way to do them, right?
A great novel, or any piece of art really, picks you up from where you are and immerses you in another place.
I had an old boss who apparently would have been right at home in 1950.
Forget 5Ks and half marathons, I think I have to become an ultramarathoner.
I can tell you two things after reading Gillian Flynn’s “Sharp Objects.” First, if you say that a character is left handed, like all geniuses, I will flag that page. Second, Flynn remains someone I would not want to end up with in a dark room.
