I’ve read many books lately that I’ve loved, but I’ll mention two here. One is the end of me by John Gould. A collection of very short fiction (“sudden stories” – great term!) each dealing in a different way with the question of mortality. It’s a funny and uplifting book despite the serious theme. There are so many great lines, I spent all my time reading bits of it aloud to my family, who were in line to read it next so I had to be careful not to spoil anything.
The other book I want to mention is Quarrels by Eve Joseph. I read it all in one sitting (in bed, when I should have been sleeping, a moth circling the bedside lamp). I couldn’t stop reading these short prose poems, each word carefully placed and faceted so that it shines, each poem running back into itself so it seems much bigger than its footprint on the page. They’re worthy of many rereads, and I’ve started a second go-through, giving myself a day or two between each poem so that I can really sink into them. The problem is they’re so more-ish it takes a real act of will not to turn the page.