I am forever amazed at the seemingly psychic ways that reading makes its way into your life. How sometimes, books just choose you. Yesterday after picking my brother up from the hospital, I was driving back to work (and I never drive to work) and noticed how windy it was in the city. The multicoloured leaves were strewn (and continually blowing) all around the streets and it was an amazing site to be seen. You know, it's one thing to know that the seasons are changing, to see the treetops from the 20th floor and to remark about the prettiness of it all. But it's quite another thing to experience the seasons: to stand on Bloor Street as the wind whips you into next week, to put out the recycling and kick a pile of leaves around at the bottom of your stairs, to smell the cold, autumn air. It's so easy to forget the importance of noticing these things as the days get busy with life, stress and (in my case) seemingly never-ending drama (and, well, trauma).
I've been reading Oryx and Crake, slowly and it's reminding me of The Road. Anyway, the edition I have is hardcover and I didn't want to lug it all the way to work so I picked up Knut Hamsun's Hunger this morning instead. I bought a second-hand paperback when we were in NYC this summer because it's been on numerous 'to be read' lists that I've made over the years. Imagine my delight at finding this sentence: "The fall had come, that cool delicious time of year when everything changed colour and died."