Zorro has no power over the weather.

I recently started reading Isabel Allende's Zorro and was surprised at how easily I fell into it. It's a delightful book, the characters are endearing, and the plot moves along at a good clip with pleasant surprises in store. My only complaint was that the 3rd person omniscient narrator suddenly interrupts on page 89 with his own voice and alludes to his role in the story. It's terribly abrupt, and (I looked) the only other place he speaks is literally the very first sentence. Jarring.

But my complaint against the narrator is beside the point. The book had been recommended to me over and over, and I finally read it, loved it, and couldn't wait to see what happened next.

That's when we had a week or so of violent thunderstorms. And this little guy

got frightened while the fiance and I were at the gym. And he took it out on Zorro:

Of course, I immediately tried to find which page I'd been on and see if I'd lost any valuable story information. The two main characters have a pivotal experience in the ten pages between where I stopped reading and where Puck deemed I should pick back up. I'm off to Grumpy's this week to find another copy and finish that story. And the house has been puppy-proofed - mostly.

Man reading should be man intensely alive.

"The book should be a ball of light in one's hand."

Labor Day weekend we cease from our labors (or labor at play).  I chose to spend as much time as possible in the delicate weather that was balancing between summer and fall.  Days were spent sunbathing and nights in long-sleeves with hot tea.  And every moment that my attention was not required (by family, or chores, or Puck), I read.

Robin McKinley's newest book, Chalice, was airy and perfect.  I literally could not stand to put it down.  By the end, unconsciously wistful for bees and living earth, I found myself in the backyard, lying in the grass in late sunlight.  And it had a wonderfully triumphant ending.  McKinley has maintained her place as one of my favorite-est fantasy writers yet again!  Other books by her that I'd whole-heartedly recommend: The Hero and the Crown, The Blue Sword, Sunshine.

I'm about ten pages from the end of Spelling Mississippi, by Marnie Woodrow, which I'll devour for lunch.  Woodrow's first novel is clearly that: she struggles a little to find her rhythm, but I found myself willing to read her choppy prose.  She wrote with such a clear idea of her characters, many well-tangled and interesting story lines, and such a powerful sense of place that I really couldn't give up on her.  The book is not ending as I'd predicted, and I feel confident that even in these last ten pages or so, I will continue to be caught off guard.

Others on my shelf (in various stages of reading and enjoyment) include: Oxygen, by Carol Cassella (who could resist the title or the cover?); The Little Bookroom, by Eleanor Farjeon (courtesy of my compatriot bibliophile, Josh); Mirror, Mirror, by Mark Pendergrast (we're all narcissists, but why?); and One More for the Road, by Ray Bradbury (he's just fantastic; period).

In other news, I'm considering joining the Twitter movement.  Thoughts?