Rebecca's Books
For as long as I could read, books have been my constant companions. Like the diary entries some keep, my books remind me of the who, what, when, where, why and hows, and my scribbled notes in the margins range from pondering annotations to unrelated notes, as I often used the book leaves as makeshift journals and planners, filled with everyday reminders, phone numbers, doodles, and other inane information that would make a librarian shudder in horror. I dog-ear pages and break book spines, because after reading a book twenty times, you will lose a bookmark and inevitably leave the book on your couch. And anyway, books with broken spines are easier to hold in one hand while you lay in bed, turning the pages while slowly drifting to sleep.
This blog will discuss and review books, but not with necessarily with long critiques; I am more interested in sharing the effect the writing and story had on me. Did I dream about it afterwards, or was I unable to to finish it because the writing was too dull? DId the novelist combat cultural issues or was it a fun page-turner I read in two hours, or was it both?
The name of the blog is a throwback to my favorite poems as a child, a hardcover version of “Cats” by the inimitable TS Elliot. But TS Elliot has stalked me my whole life, allowing me to remember, during times when my depression left me curled in bed weeping for reasons I couldn’t identify, that angst is human; but I also still have his Cats collection memorized, and there, in that juxtaposition, is what I love about literature: One day, it’s “this is how the world ends, this is how the world ends, this is how the world ends;” the next, we consider how to correctly name a cat. In this case, the Great Rumpus Cat.
So tell everyone around you back off, and sit down with an afghan at your favorite reading nook. Pour the tea (or whisky, or wine, or a bag of semisweet chocolate chips) Put the cat on your lap and read for the sheer joy of leaving this world and our government behind, going to to a better place, or maybe fighting a far worse one.
There will be no book snobbery in this blog. My John Grishams are nestled comfortably between my Foucault and Faulkner. I welcome discourse and discussion and I invite anyone to join me in my opinionated rants. And with that, I give you THE GREAT RUMPUSCAT.













