Truly there are not enough hours in the day, maybe days in the year, for me to read or reread all the books I want to. The pile of books next to the futon in my study (my number one spot to read) keeps growing as does the list of books to order I keep on my blackberry. Right now I am working my way through the 800+ pages of 2666, Roberto Bolano's posthumously published magnum opus. It's weird, exhilarating, but at times really difficult to read, sort of like watching a fantastic movie on the edge of your seat but one where you have to close your eyes at the gory or scary parts.
So why was it last night while I was delightfully zoned out in corpse pose at the end of my weekly restorative yoga class, that it suddenly came to me with great urgency that I absolutely, positively had to reread Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. (If only I could find my copy from freshman English class with all my underlinings and marginal notes. It would be like rediscovering lost love letters.) Probably because I had similar sensations when reading Wuthering Heights--totally caught up in the intense and hermetic world of the book and almost painfully hypersensitive to the passions of its characters.
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