The Only Book

I just finished Charlaine Harris's third Sookie Stackhouse book, Club Dead. And I loved it. Although I wish things had worked out better with Alcide Herveaux, but maybe in some future volume....
Something I've been discussing with my therapist: I've only finished two books since September, although I've started something like fifteen. What gives? That's between her and me, I'm afraid. But I can tell you, both of those books involve werewolves.

Meanwhile, I have been (mostly) resisting the temptation to reread The Year of Magical Thinking. Every so often, a book takes over my mind to the extent that it becomes the only book, the one that seems to hold the key to everything, and I keep rereading it, and I can't seem to stop. I read The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie thirteen times. I read Memento Mori eight times. I read Loitering with Intent five times. I read A Book of Common Prayer seven times. I read Fiskadoro five times. I read Riddley Walker four times. I read Una Vincenzo Troubridge's The Six Wives of Henry VIII nine times, although I can't imagine why I thought it was so good then (I was in fourth grade). What else? Oh yes, Earthly Paradise, by Colette. Nine times. I did read each of these over and over in a row. The Year of Magical Thinking is the one that I pick up every couple of years. And I think I'm about ready to do it again. There's been so much loss the last couple of years, it seems like the best primer for going on with life.