Yeah, it's World Book Day, whatever the hell that is: I'm sure you'll find other bloggers celebrating away, shredding pages of old books into confetti and urging readers into bookstores with little tin horns.
Not here. (Oh, no, I'm not against the World or Books or even Days. I am just being cranky, pure and simple, about invented celebrations.)
Today is March 1, and that ushers in my Month of Essays. And do I have some beauties!
The London Scene: Six Essays by Virginia Woolf (doubles as a travel guide, too!)
First and the Last by Isaiah Berlin (includes his final essay, My Intellectual Path)
Why Do I Love These People: Understanding, Surviving and Creating Your Own Family by Po Bronson (as I rarely mention my family, you must get an inkling of why this book appeals)
Hundred White Daffodils by Jane Kenyon (I've been inspired by all of the Kenyon poetry bloggers posted in the past year, plus she discusses her battles with depression)
... among essays I intend to read by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Joan Didion and whoever else strikes my fancy.
AND I am expecting delivery this month of a new book of essays on Sylvia Plath.
Not sure I'll make it through the entire list, but that's what I like about essays: You can dip and delve into them, one by one, versus having to devour volumes whole, as novels require.