I have recently thrown caution to the wind and ordered two fairly large novels. Neither of which were originally written in English but in Russian and Polish. Imagine that! Me, honestly sometimes I wonder how many corners of the literary world one must sift throught to come to terms with a personal identity. It’s always: maybe if I read this one–oh yes definitely this one– I’ll have enough perspective to call myself “good.” It’s never going to be enough, I know that, but where does the passion of searching, reading, and discovering even come from, and where and when does it end?
Two books purchased:
1. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
2. Stone Upon Stone by Wieslaw Mysliwski