The heap beside the chair

A few years ago, I resolved that good coffee merited proper consideration and should never be consumed while washing up; instead, I would make it once a day, late morning, then sit in my armchair, or outside on the balcony when it's warm enough, and enjoy it with a book or knitting. I was sad that I had read so little in the second thirty years of my life compared to the first thirty, and was trying to reclaim a bit of time for myself between all the other things I need to do. It doesn't always work out, of course, but it has definitely made a difference. 

This is the current book pile beside my armchair. I have blipped it before, and some of the books have been there for a long time: as well as a book I'm reading, usually a novel, there are always several poetry and art books which I dip in and out of. I've just finished The Last Runaway. It's an engaging story, of an English Quaker girl trying to adjust to a new life in Ohio in the mid nineteenth century and encountering runaway slaves and those who helped them in the networks known as the Underground Railroad. Like the other Tracey Chevalier books I've read, it grounds the story in the material detail of a world where people make things - in this case, quilts and hats - and is based on careful research. I enjoyed reading it, though I didn't love it. Among the poetry books, the Mary Oliver was my birthday present from J last year and I've dipped into it a lot and discovered many new poems I love. Proust is there because P decided he wanted to make madeleines, bought a tin, and set out to learn; so we talked about things which re-awaken memories. The madeleines turned out very well - we've had two batches now - but the only memory they hold for me is that of reading Proust at university. As I took the photo, I noted the upside down title and it occurred to me that not only do French books require me to twist my neck in the opposite direction in bookshops, they also need to be placed on book heaps face down. The Patrick Heron at the bottom of the pile is the catalogue from an excellent exhibition at Tate St Ives quite a few years ago; it's been there ever since, as I'm slowly working through all the essays by art historians and critics included in the book, which I find interesting but slow to read; and some days I just like to look at the pictures. 

The small table also has space for my coffee mug and small-scale knitting. I've recently started some more socks, as I wanted something small to knit in the car; I've still not finished the jumper for P I started over two years ago. Knitting is another thing I enjoy a lot but struggle to fit in. 

This is not a very creative response to the Mono Monday "literary" theme, but I'm sure I'm not alone in enjoying looking at other people's bookshelves.