winter reads

These days, I’m living my best book life. I have short, precarious stacks of books all over the house: travel guides, novels, poetry, cookbooks. I love my books, but I am hard on them. I make copious notations, I stash them in my bag when I’m on the go, and if I sense someone needs my book more than I do, I give it away.

Our winter wasn’t as cold and snowy as some, but it was grey and damp. I spent those months dabbling, skipping from book to book, and rereading a few favorites. If I begin reading a book and I’m not hooked after a few chapters, I set it aside. I spent ten years as a student of literature, and I always read what I was instructed to read. Now I’m more reckless. Sometimes I purchase a book simply because it has a pretty cover. I read more in English. Unfinished books linger. It’s glorious to flit between subjects and genres and to touch so many different books in one sitting.

For this post, I gathered a selection of some recent and favorite reads that might lead you to your next book. Dainin Katagiri’s The Light That Shines Through Infinity has been a steady, insightful spiritual companion that I have already gifted to a friend and that I will reread multiple times. Michelin’s guide to Brittany has had me dreaming about France’s rugged coasts, and Alexandre Maral’s Versailles: côté ville, côté jardin has furthered my research on the Royal City. My cookbook collection is unmanageable, but Emeril Lagasse’s review of Bottom of the Pot made Naz Deravian’s new book on Persian cuisine irresistible.

A few months ago, I embarked on a poetry project with a friend. Each month, we read one poem by Irish poet Eavan Boland. We stay with that poem for a whole month, and then we each compose our own poem that is inspired by and seems to grow from the month’s poem. Writing and sharing poetry terrifies me, but our Eavan Boland project has helped me to go deeper with poetry and to feel brave enough to write my own poems.

If English is my first and most comfortable language, French is my chosen and beloved language. My French winter reads were delightful. I’ve been enjoying random selections of François Cheng’s De l’âme (About the Soul). He unfailingly brings me beauty as he bridges philosophies of the East and the West. In Le camélia de ma mère (My Mother’s Camellia), Alain Baraton, the head gardener at the Château de Versailles, sings the beauty of his mother’s favorite flower. And after teaching L’Elégance du hérisson (The Elegance of the Hedgehog), last spring, I am treating myself to a third or fourth reading of Muriel Barbery’s novel on the beauty of friendship.

Inspirations

Discovering Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca

Thoughts on beauty and grief

More reads on Creative Sanctuary

I was lucky to have a grandmother who always made it a priority to read what her grandchildren read, as a way to connect to them. For my cousins, she trudged through Harry Potter, even though she did not enjoy fantasy and magic. Grandma also dutifully read the Left Behind series along with my middle school brother. She worried that he was becoming a religious fanatic, but that’s a story for another day.

As a young girl, I took it for granted that Grandma and I could always talk about books. I was a hungry, speedy reader who was able to read “grown up” books a little early. I was surprised when, one day, Grandma handed me her copy of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, paraphrasing the first line: “Last night I dreamt of Manderley…” She thought I might enjoy reading it.

In a flash, our relationship expanded. She no longer had to shift to my level and interests. Now I could go toward her beloved texts. She sensed I was ready.

I remember reading the book feverishly—there was romance, evil, and even a ghost, if memory serves. I must have been in 6^th grade. Today, flipping through Grandma’s 1967 Pocket Cardinal Edition, I realize that 419 pages would have been a formidable, appropriate challenge for me. She would not abide vulgar language or sex in novels read by her grandchildren, so my innocence was surely preserved in reading Rebecca.

Now that Grandma is gone and I am grown, I smile to think that my traditional yet fiery grandmother carried Rebecca with her for so many years. From time to time, we’d talk about the novel, and she never failed, hand to chest, to evoke that memorable first line. “Last night I dreamt of Manderley…”

I admit that I have allowed the details of Rebecca to become fuzzy. There was a first wife, a second wife, and a fire. I don’t remember much more. I’m not ready to reread the novel right now. For me, Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca isn’t about plot or strong female characters. It’s about a shared text, a passion for reading, and an enduring intergenerational friendship.

Inspirations

Parul Sehgal’s In Praise of Daphne du Maurier