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Fetched my last amazon order from the post office after work & now have HMS Surprise, Mauritius Command, the second Abarat book and the two remaining volumes of the B5 Centauri trilogy...

And while I'm blushing little at the lack of anything more intellectual and/or artistic on my recent reading list... on the other hand, what the hell. What am I trying to prove here, or to whom. Sometimes I love for a book to tax my mind, to explore new ideas and realms of thought, to dazzle me with its stylistic brilliance, &c., & so on, & so forth, while at other times I just want to curl up under a blanket and be drawn into a book because I fall in love with the story or the characters, a book that bypasses all those analytical higher brain functions and appeals directly to the gut, emotions, imagination.

Especially the Aubrey-Maturin books I've been embarrassingly, childishly impatient about all day, wanting to return to the world, the people. It's childish, really, but I can't but enjoy this very simple, very basic feeling, love for a story.

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