Isabel Allende's "Daughter of Fortune" and Octavia E. Butler's "Imago." I think I would have liked "Imago" more if I had read the previous two books in the Xenogenesis series. But since I simply got it out on Interlibrary Loan and the books come in whenever they come in regardless of chronology, I picked it up, put it down, picked it up, put it down. Brought it out to Coney Island yesterday because it was thinner than "Bridge of courage" (which I still haven't finished) and fit in nicely with all my film, cameras, water bottles, etc.

B has hijacked Bardic Voices, and while I could demand it back under house rules (whoever started the book first gets the book), he's been under a lot of pressure lately, and if he's enjoying the book, why make an issue of it? I'm not so attached to it that not being able to read it is making me itchy.

So I picked up a book that I found while cruising randomly through the non-fiction stacks at the library, looking for some more serious reading than Mercedes Lacky. A Small Corner of Hell: Dispatches from Chechnya, by Anna Politkovskaya. Politkovskaya is not a war correspondent, but just an ordinary civilian reporter. Her editor sent her to Chechnya because he specifically wanted the civilian perspective on the war.

He got it. I've barely touched the book, and already I'm in shock -- I'm not surprised, because I know people are like this, but shocked, because it is so horrific -- over what I'm reading. In the US, all we get from major media outlets is that there's a war in Chechnya, it's probably unjust, there have been war crimes, and there has been terrorism. No details, and on to the weather. Over to you, John.

And no indication of how the war started. This book starts with an introduction of a professor at Northwestern, who gives an historic overview of the causes of the war. Some of them date back hundreds of years. The consequences of our actions reverberate.

This is my year to get halfway through books written by authors I generally like, only to get stalled halfway through and find myself wondering if I feel like finishing.

I decided "no" on Forest Mage. I asked B to give me a quick rundown on what happens, and no, I don't want to read it.

The other book that is hanging fire is the new Harry Potter. It's interesting enough, but not particularly gripping, and I've just hit the second place where there is a long, boring sequence that I think should have been edited heavily. I should correct myself: it's interesting enough, except for sections where nothing happens.

It's possible that this makes me a heretic in the world of popular reading, but I've never been a Danielle Steele fan, either. Of course, it's also possible that this makes me a snob. That's okay. I'll just keep reading or not reading whatever I like, since it's not as though I'm being graded on this.

I have two new books to read, which B plucked out of the cheapo books piles at B&N. You can find all sorts of neat stuff in there. One is about Confederate women, and the other is Tong Sing: The Chinese Book of Wisdom. "Based on the ancient Chinese almanac." Shows what I know. Of course, I barely know about almanacs in English, either.

I've finished The Difference Engine, which turns out to have quite a few more elements of Gibson's style than I had first seen. Now I'm interested in reading Brian Sterling's Mirrorshades, which is billed as "the defining novel in cyber-punk."

The new Harry Potter is dangling before me. As usual, I'm of the put-it-on-hold-at-the-library school, and B is of the order-it-and-get-a-discount school. So now we own the book. I think I'm third in line to read it. Usually I'm first, as I am indisputably the fasted reader in the house, so I supposed I shouldn't gripe that I don't get preference this time.

Actually, it's not that big a deal. I'm certainly very curious to see how Rowling does, or does not, tie together all the dangling ends, but I can wait to find out who croaks, who lives, who gets to stay together forever, and who gets to ride off into the sunset.

Meanwhile, I'm reading The Difference Engine, by William Gibson and Bruce Sterling. It's interesting, but not anywhere near as absorbing as Gibson's solo work. He has a rather unique style, and it's damped way down in this book.

I also have one of the Bardic Voices, by Mercedes Lackey. I've barely cracked the cover so far, but it looks interesting. I wonder if I'm going to determinedly go through every book she's written, because that's certainly what it looks like right now.

I have a book of Western short stories that served as the basis for movies. It's interesting, but as I haven't seen most of the movies and am not a real fan of Westerns, it's a little bland.

Sped through Julia Alvarez's "finding miracles" in one afternoon at the office. It was great. I left it at the office.

Last night, unable to sleep and debating hauling myself to the 24-hour laundromat to do a midnight load, I searched my bookshelves and found one of the (many) books I have yet to read: "Searching for Everardo" by Jennifer Harbury. Harbury, a middle-aged, middle class white American, went to Guatemala to collect testimonials from those persecuted by the military government. She met Commandante Everardo, a Mayan resistance fighter. They fell in love and, apparently (I haven't gotten that far in the book), got married.

Then he got disappeared.

READ NO MORE IF YOU'RE SQUEAMISH (although horrifying, this is true)...

The book is overwhelming. In the first few pages, she recounts the murder of a woman who had been brave enough to get up, with her baby in her sling, and speak out. The woman and her baby were found dead a few days later, both badly tortured. She had bite marks and cigarette burns on her breasts. The baby's fingernails had been pulled off.

I had to put the book down for the night. I know that this is what happens, not just in Guatemala in the 1980s, but other places, more recently, maybe even now, but it's stomach-turning. Watching your baby get tortured simply because you spoke out against injustice and being able to do absolutely nothing about it...

Sometimes paper is the only thing that will listen to you.

Isabel Allende's YA novel "City of Beasts," which I liked a lot less than her re-telling of Zorro (which isn't marked as a YA book)

"Women on the Row"--a telling of an ex-nun's life and coming out as a lesbian interspersed with the tales of 10 women currently on Death Row in the United States

Julia Alvarez's YA novel "Before We Were Free." The narrator originally annoyed the hell out of me in the beginning (I think she's supposed to), but she grows up a lot during the course of the book and in the end, her understanding of what's happened is heartbreaking.

Sometimes paper is the only thing that will listen to you.

I've just finished Exile's Honor, by Mercedes Lackey. Fun, but for a couple of sticking points.

It isn't "easy to get a divorce" when both partners have to agree to it.

Sex scenes in which the woman lies back and lets the man do all the work are irritating. I realize that the notion is totally shocking and foreign to any decent woman, but really, some of us hold our own in bed. Honest.

Right now, I'm alternating between Octavia Butler's "Parable of the Talents," which is much denser and slower than "Fledgling" or the book about the woman who goes back and forth between the antebellum South and the 1980s, and a mostly photo book about Tina Modotti with a very long bio/introduction. Reading the comments about her work and the context for the shifts in her photography has inspired me to try shooting in new ways. I haven't printed anything yet, so we shall see how this works out...

Sometimes paper is the only thing that will listen to you.

I just finished Jeannette Winterson's Lighthousekeeping. I love her writing, it's mesmerizing to me.

"Do not forget. Remember and warn."
-- Plaque fixed to the hollow shell of Sarajevo's National Library