I’m reading Claire Messud’s The Woman Upstairs and having an exceptionally good experience with it. Every time I hit a dry spell with books, I become irrationally convinced that I’m never going to find another one that doesn’t leave me shrugging, and that books are done with me. I’ve hit the end.
For instance, I’ve been slowly reading Allegra Goodman’s Intuition for a month, feeling the entire time that I might have read it before. It is just unfamiliar enough to make me question the things I am sure I already knew. It’s good, but it’s not spellbinding (probably because I’ve read it before). And I listened to Lawrence Wright’s Going Clear, salivating the entire time. It was fascinating, but I was reading the book. Not the other way around.