I have exactly 22 books next to my bed. Some are writing books. Two are yoga books. I haven’t gotten very far on any of them. No reason.
“Life After Death” by Damien Echols. I’m kind of scared to see what must be in the pages of this book. I already know it’s brutal. That’s what happens when you spend 18 years on death row for a murder you didn’t commit, 10 of them in solitary confinement.
I Was Told There’d Be Cake” by Sloane Crosley. A collection of essays about everything and nothing. I’ve actually read almost all of them. Brilliant.
“Manuscript Found in Accra” by Paulo Coelho. I’m not sure how it got there. I think my friend Adam loaned it to me, which means it’s probably great but I haven’t started it.
“Waking” by Matthew Sanford. Adam, did you loan me that one too? Dang it! No clue.
Allen Ginsberg’s Selected Poems, 1947-1995. I got it used at Counterpoint Bookstore on Franklin. Someone wrote notes in it. One poem:
It is the moon that disappears
It is the stars that hide not I
It’s the City that vanishes, I stay
with my forgotten shoes,
my invisible stocking
It is the call of a bell
“Awakening the Buddhist Heart” by Lama Surya Das. I love this book. I’ve read it many times. But I don’t know if I’ve read this exact one. I’ve given away probably two of them. Hardbacks, if I recall.
“Sidhartha” by Hermann Hesse, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” by Robert M. Pirsig and “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams. I ordered all three of these at the same time online because I had never read them and I still haven’t read them.
“M Train” by Patti Smith. Just got it at her reading I went to. Can’t wait.
“Dracula” by Bram Stoker and “Psycho” by Robert Bloch. Both given to me by my friend Miranda. She gets me.