It’s Monday again! How does that happen? It seemed like Saturday and Sunday just flew by.
Let’s see, what is there rattling around in my head or sitting on my coffee table for SBD?
First, I read another Rizzoli & Isles book by Tess Gerritsen, The Body Double. It wasn’t bad, was fairly predictable. How am I supposed to be impressed by Rizzoli and Isles as detectives/sleuths when as a reader I guessed the big reveals long before they did? Also, I’m ambivalent generally about how twins are treated in fiction, particularly identical twins separated at birth.
Second, there were three new books waiting for me today when I returned from running errands: Rafa, the autobiography written with John Carlin; The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot; and The Snowman by Jo Nesbo.
The autobiography, well, I hadn’t planned on reading it, primarily because 25 seems too young for a biography of any sort, unless the 25 year old in question has died tragically young, which is not the case. But in light of some of the reviews that talk about getting his perspective on The Greatest Match Ever Played, I changed my mind. (Strokes of Genius is focused on the match but has a Federer-fanboy tone IMO.) I am sorry that it isn’t in Spanish, though, because it seems more likely that readers would get more of Nadal’s unfiltered perspective on the match that way, rather than getting Carlin’s interpretations in English of conversations that were in Spanish.
Henrietta Lacks, I can’t remember where I first heard of this book, but kept popping up on my recommendation list. Et voila, I purchased a copy. Those recommendation algorithms really do work sometimes.
The Snowman, Nemesis and The Devil’s Star are the Nesbo books available in the US that I haven’t read yet. (I’ve read Redbreast and Headhunters, which are available, and The Redeemer, which was purchased in Ireland.) I’ll get to them all eventually. And if the other Harry Hole books are ever released in the US, I’ll read them, too. Or maybe end up ordering from AmazonUK.
Third, I took a book to the beach that I didn’t read. It has now traveled up to Cape Cod and over to lower, slower Delaware, yet still returns unread. At what point do I accept that I’m just not going to read this book and return it to the shelf with the hundreds of books that I may get around to someday? (I’m not kidding about the hundreds; six shelves, double stacked, full of books that I’ll read at some point. Plus all the ebooks that are out of sight and out of mind. It’s a sickness.)