What I have read fills my mind.

It feels like a big cotton ball. I've been stuck on modern authors for the past few weeks, and I've noticed that it's like dining solely upon peanut butter crackers and skim milk. I want my Chesterton, my Blackmore. My steak and potatoes. With butter. Lots, of course. That'll be the poetry. And I cannot, must not, forget the bread. I'm allowed to eat this bread as much as I like.

Here's what I've read since June. It's positively shameful.

Four books by Ellis Peters ("good fluff"):
Brother Cadfael's Penance,
Death and the Joyful Woman,
The Rose Rent, and
The Knocker on Death's Door.

Seven (Yes, seven) books by Joanne Harris, a modern authoress whom I have resolved never to read again:
Chocolat,
Jigs and Reels,
Blackberry Wine,
Coastliners,
Holy Fools,
Five Quarters of the Orange, and
Gentlemen and Players.

1, 2, and 3 were actually good, but by the time I got to 7, she had degenerated into complete modern-ness and vulgarity.

Also, I read Imperial Woman by Pearl S. Buck, which was interesting and not a complete waste of time, and Reformed is Not Enough, by Wilson, which was great. The lonely Really Good Book. How sad.

And now for my big mistake: I borrowed some books from a certain RUF minister I know; a Chesterton, a Wendell Berry, and another modern book which looked interesting at the time, but turned out to be vulgar and obscene. It's called The Time Traveler's Wife, and I highly recommend that you never ever read it or buy it. If it were mine, I would have thrown it away already. It is terrible. It is why my brain seems very small right now. I feel the need for some good old Real Life and then a long session with my old friends on my shelves.

Also, I've resolved to never again pick up a book that I don't know from that man's shelf. I will not talk to strangers. I will not talk to strangers. I will not talk to strangers. Gaah. I'm babbling.