It only seems as if you're doing something when you worry.-Lucy Maud Montgomery

Okay, I know I haven't posted in a bit, but it's because I'm not done Looking for Anne yet (I'll probably finish tonight however). I've just been so bloody tired that by the time I get home from work I can't concentrate on reading, and all I want to do is stare mindlessly at the television. The book is super-fantastic though, and I'm really enjoying it. Irene Gammel writes in such an accessible way.

I remembered what those other books I bought were, here ya go: Enchantment: The Life of Audrey Hepburn by David Spoto, and that other book I was reading, Evening by Susan Minot. I did put Evening aside, and I very much doubt that I'm going to go back to it, it was just horrendous. Today I bought a book for Jen (can't say what it is here, because she might read before I give it to her tonight) and E=MC2: A Biography of the World's Most Famous Equation by David Bodanis. Oh ya, and on Monday I got the entire Cairo Trilogy (Palace Walk, Palace of Desire, and Sugar Street) by Naguib Mahfouz. I read Midaq Alley last spring and absolutely loved it, so I'm hoping these will be just as good.

So, Jen thought that I should blog about some news I found out this weekend. At first I wasn't sure, because I don't really like to blog about articles, etc. that I have found upsetting. But, since it's about Maud, I figured I might as well. The article was published in the Globe & Mail on Saturday, here's the link: The Heartbreaking Truth About Anne's Creator. Basically, it states that Lucy Maud Montgomery committed suicide and that the family kept it a secret. Apparently there was a suicide note (although this is up for debate now, as I've read what is claimed to be the note and I don't think she's actually writing about killing herself). Dr. Mary Rubio seems to also think it may not be a suicide note, and there is speculation that Maud may have accidentally overdosed.

I was in a state of shock when I read this, and carried around a little pang in my heart all weekend (it's still there actually). Maud's books are, and have been since I first found Anne, my refuge. I wander Green Gables with Anne, New Moon with Emily, Silver Bush with Pat, and the rest of PEI with Jane, Kilmeny, Marigold, and Sara, but most especially, the Muskokas with Valancy. Whenever I need, I have another place to go. I think that is the most upsetting part for me; Maud gave me a refuge, but she didn't have that. She has given me so much, and has had a huge impact on the person I am today, but she lived in darkness for so long.

I am very glad that we live in a society and time where depression and other mental illnesses are more open for discussion (although we still have a ways to go), and I know this is part of the reason why Kate decided to bring the story out. But there's still a part of me (that idealistic part) that would rather not have known. This revelation will never tarnish what I think of Maud and her writings, but it still makes me very sad.

I've, as anyone who follows this blog knows, been re-reading a lot of the books as of late (short stories too, although I really don't mention them here). I usually try to read all the books over again once a year, but this year was a little different. I don't usually talk about myself on this blog, but here goes. I was recently diagnosed with stage 2 cervical dysplasia (it is regressing though, so no fear!), but re-reading Maud's books over the last few months has enabled me to not think about it too much. I know I'm not dying, or anything ridiculous like that, but it is very scary, and having Maud around has let me escape, even if only for a little while. I don't want to bother or scare my friends and family with talking about it constantly, plus I don't really want to talk about it constantly either, but having Maud's books has made it easier.

Okay, enough about me! Happy Punctuation Day everyone!

Your intellect may be confused, but your emotions will never lie to you.-Roger Ebert

Haven't blogged about Amsterdam yet, because frankly I'm a little loathe to do so. It was so bad. I can't even believe that it won the Man Booker Prize (although so did The English Patient and we all know how I felt about that book), I can't even really express it. While I still think that Ian McEwan has a lovely writing style, this book was basically trash; and no, I really don't think my opinion is going to change as I write like it did with On Chesil Beach. The only character who could have been the least bit interesting was already dead when the book opened, and the remaining characters were so shallow and self-absorbed that it's sickening (even now). Yes, having disagreeable characters worked in On Chesil Beach, they made the book what it was and made you want to jump into the book and tell them what's-what, but the characters in Amsterdam were beyond preposterous. I was seriously disappointed when I finished. It was just so empty and pointless, and ultimately kind of dull. While I was like WTF? towards the end, the outcome really wasn't a surprise. I know that McEwan is so much more than this, which is why I'm giving him one last shot. I've heard some really good things about Saturday, which I recently found at the thrift store, and I intend to read it. This is the best of three Mr. McEwan, right now we stand at 1-1, and I hope you don't disappoint.

I started reading Evening by Susan Minot on Sunday (on the subway, of course) after finishing Amsterdam. It was made into a movie not too long ago with some cool people like Meryl Streep, Vanessa Redgrave, etc. I saw a trailer for it and thought that it looked interesting and decided to read the book first. Really, I think I'm going to have to stop reading it. The entire novel is told in stream of consciousness (read: basically no punctuation, except for periods and the occasional comma), and it's driving me insane. It's barely discernible who's saying what since there are no quotation marks, and you really can't tell the difference between actual speech and just thought. I understand that the novel is supposed to be a swamp of memories recalled by Ann, partially hazed by cancer medication, as she lays dying, but it's ridiculous. I don't know if I can do it people.

I need to read a book that doesn't make me want to stop reading.