Pore over.

This summer I am not going away. I will be spending it in Melbourne for the main, nose buried in a book. I hope to make my way at leisurely pace through a pile of novels that for too long have languished on my list of intended reads. My tower of intentions needs seeing to. Upon my list, earmarked for discovery is The Cat Inside by William S. Burroughs, The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis, The Road to San Giovanni by Italo Calvino, Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë, The Infinities by John Banville, The Disappeared by Kim Echlin, The Boat by Nam Le. All by way of a little Ellroy, Colum McCann’s Let The Great World Spin, Dostoevsky's The Idiot, and P.G.Wodehouse, any. I plan to read Pamuk’s The Museum of Innocence, a little Keats, a little Plath, Carey’s Parrot and Olivier in America, Atwood’s The Year of the Flood, and I will start with Barbara Kingsolver’s The Lacuna.

Do you have any recommendations for me? Or better still care to join me?

On subject of books, here is a detailed look at one of mine recently exhibited.

{A view gleaned through looking-glass. This is a twelve page book of mine featuring collage and pencil on the pages of a London postcard views of note (2009). Exhibited recently, it is now winging way to new owner in Tasmania.}