A Year in Reading: Elisa Gabbert
My midlife condition is “not enough time to read”—but years begin with such a sense of possibility. I remember this January felt particularly free and expansive, because my husband was away for the month at a writing residency. I wanted to use all that cold and alone time to do some writing of my own, and that directed my reading. I posted up in John’s vacated office, moved a space heater under his desk and got a huge stack of architecture books from the library. When I wasn’t flipping through those I read ‘s translation of , ’s only novel, and though I love Rilke and I love poets’ novels, I still almost couldn’t believe how much I loved it, a gorgeous pseudo-nonfictional fiction that is also on some level pseudo-fictional nonfiction, and pre-. An almost random collage of the kinds of passages that make novels worth reading, but without
