Unmarked Grave

There is only a week remaining before this blog winds down to a close. Oh, I'm not abandoning it. But it was meant to run six months. Here we are at the end of the sixth; I no longer have the obligation to make a textual accounting of every book that passes through my hands. Entries are no longer mandatory! I can read all kinds of secret books which none of you will ever know about . . . Presumably there is nothing hindering me from continuing to make entries, but let us be honest, my friends: I was always better at chewing through the books than I was at reporting on them.

In a way, Booked Under shut down weeks ago. See the title up there? Just above the first paragraph? (For those of you too unstimulated to bother moving your eyes back up, it says "Unmarked Grave".) This post is so named because there have been many books these past few weeks. I've lost count of them, but they were all novels. You could ask me to tell you what they were but my memory would not support your request. It's all a damp haze. There was that trilogy about the farm girl foot ball player, a weird one about a kid with flaps of skin running from his arms to his rib cage, another trilogy by Sanderson (brilliant brilliant brilliant, each installment more so than the last) and some other books not coming to mind. A bevy of novels came to me, were read swiftly and covertly, and were then buried quietly in a dark, out of the way place. A minute of silence, please, for the nameless paperbacks and forgotten hours that were my life for the month of June.




That wasn't a minute. Maintain your silence, if you please.




Okay. Thanks. I think we are permitted to move on.

Well, move along there. The whole point of the silence was to give us time to clear our minds and wash away all the meaningless fiction. Get out of here! Go read something wonderful!