I don't get a big thick New York Times delivered to my door. I read it online. I miss the Sunday Times, though, and although I could easily have the physical paper in my hands, I'm going to stick to the online version while I'm in NM. Because, you see, I take most of the day to read the physical version. Sometimes most of the week.
Since I spent much of this evening on homework and fretting by the phone, I thought Short Story Sunday could have an "I'm Five" diversion. Want to join? Read this article, then post a comment about a book club in your life...past or present. The good. The bad. The...you get the picture. Lurkers, this is a good time to participate. Don't make me call on you.
Here's my book club story. For 18 months in 2000-2002, I met with a group of friends--some of whom became friends through our meetings--each week to read James Joyce's Ulysses aloud. I had never read it and was determined to do so. We had the usual reference books to help us through, as well as the experience of a professor, lots of artistic folks, and a woman who grew up sharing a bedroom with her Irish gram. We rotated homes, always had good snacks, tried to meet in pubs (too dark and noisy), comforted each other after 9/11 (we met in Westchester. We knew a lot of people who suffered), celebrated New Years, birthdays, births, and anniversaries. We stopped meeting shortly after the book was finished. No one wanted to re-read it right away, and Portrait doesn't have the same "read me aloud" music to it. That group, Pam, Joel, Fred, Robert, Susan, Andy, Margie and me, plus the many drop in folks, has a bond that I feel for few other groups. Good reading. Good discussions. What more can you ask for?
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