So far, finding the novels to read next has been half the fun. As I've mentioned, I just moved to a new city. While on an unrelated errand, I stumbled upon the local bookstore. Wandering the shelves, I came upon a title on my list, Virginia Woolf's classic novel, "Into the Lighthouse."
I opened the brown paper bag and proudly readied it on my nightstand, willing it to be read. But, two weeks later, I'm still only on page 50. The prose is gorgeous... It immediately feels different than the books I've read in recent years. However, somehow, I'm struggling to get through it.
I finally contemplated why that is. It somehow reminds me more of poetry. It's indulgent! With how busy my mind has been on work and moving and everything else in life, it's been too much of a challenge for me to quiet my mind enough to appreciate all the context.
I'm not sure how I'll solve for this, but now that I understand the issue...
I opened the brown paper bag and proudly readied it on my nightstand, willing it to be read. But, two weeks later, I'm still only on page 50. The prose is gorgeous... It immediately feels different than the books I've read in recent years. However, somehow, I'm struggling to get through it.
I finally contemplated why that is. It somehow reminds me more of poetry. It's indulgent! With how busy my mind has been on work and moving and everything else in life, it's been too much of a challenge for me to quiet my mind enough to appreciate all the context.
I'm not sure how I'll solve for this, but now that I understand the issue...
