|Books! Diaries! Book Diary!
||[Jun. 27th, 2014|11:53 am]
helenraven took the second volume of Diary of a Witchcraft Shop by Trevor Jones and Liz Williams from the stack next to my desk, where it had just reached the top of the to-be-written-up-for-the-book-diary pile.
The backlog has reached embarassing proportions (not one but several piles, not all of them entirely stable) and it is possible for me to forget entirely what I thought about a book before its turn comes. On this occasion I may have lost some of the detail, but I had the general outline: as with the first volume, I thought it was an interesting glimpse of another way of life ('only in Glastonbury'), some beautiful descriptions of the Somerset countryside and many very funny stories. It didn't add much to what I had read as mevennen posted to LJ, and I loved - and still miss, for all I know that nothing lasts forever - the experience of reading those posts as they happened, the breath of air from a walk on the Levels, the latest outrageous anecdote about a customer or employee.
(For reference: the books at NewCon Press: though one of the covers must be wrong...)
However: helenraven spent the day laughing a lot and reading selected passages out to the rest of us; D. was so impressed by this that he demanded to see the book, admired the cover ("I like the stuffed demon." "It's a cat.") and was persuaded to give it back by being told where to find volume one; and by the time he and helenraven had swapped over, durham_rambler was queuing up to read it as well.
And the moral of this is, that sometimes a book is the very best form of narrative; and sometimes it's a substitute for a real live narrator telling you stories. But a book is always there when you want it, and this is a fine thing.