Krauss.

I am in the midst of constructing a dang good argument for my Dad to drive me 45 minutes through a blizzard tomorrow to see Les Mis. It's not totally plausible or realistic or even safe, in fact it's kind of emotion driven, but like I said, it's dang good.

I've been reading at least four books. A very sweet little, flimsy paperback that Nat gave me for Christmas. It's about writing. I like it.
Also James Bond. The Man With the Golden Gun. Slowly, so slowly I am reading that book. In inches, because it's the last one and inches is as slow as I am capable.
And that one, above. The Farm. Enough said.
And Great House. I'm reading Nicole Krauss because she is who she is and I would like to be like her someday. To write words like her.

“Sometimes, waking early before the others, wandering the rooms wrapped in a blanket or drinking my tea in the empty kitchen, I had that most rare of feelings, the sense that the world, so consistently overwhelming and incomprehensible, in fact has an order, oblique as it may seem, and I a place within it.”

There's something so pertinent about her sentences in every life, but mine especially. Nicole Krauss writes in my soul's language. If it had one. 

If I could speak the way Nicole Krauss writes, my Dad would take me to Les Mis eight times over.