November in North Carolina isn’t like November in most places.  It’s positively gorgeous and not bleak at all.  Clearly it hasn’t received the memo about proper November behavior, but I can get behind this sort of rebellion.  Tomorrow we’re going a-fleaing at the esteemed Raleigh flea market, Wednesday we’re going to The Aviator, Sunday we’re going to the renaissance fair, and Thanksgiving is coming soon after, so I’m thoroughly enjoying the entire month.

People doing cool things:

On the to-do list: paragliding with hawks.

Also on the to-do list: visit the Moses Bridge.

“Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall” by Coldplay.

I’ve been so busy that even my reading has been suffering, I fear.  However, I do have a few book reviews for you whether you want them or not.  I found an old copy of Hannah Fowler by Janice Holt Giles, which has been hanging around my parents’ house for years.  I think I may have read a little bit of it when I was young because the beginning felt familiar.  I can see why I gave it up, though I enjoyed it tremendously this time around; it’s sort of like a Laura Ingalls Wilder book for grown-ups.

On the plane to Detroit I reread all of The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, given to me by my wonderful roommate, and it was every bit as magnificent as I remembered.  Everyone should read The Little Prince once a year, I think.  Make it a law.

I started Sharpe’s Rifles by Bernard Cornwell, also on the plane, but sadly was considerably less impressed.  I kept hearing people call it the British army version of Horatio Hornblower, so I figured it would be genius.  Not true!  Horatio Hornblower is an admirable character, however flawed he might be.  Richard Sharpe is a proper jerk.  I keep thinking I like Bernard Corwell, and it keeps turning out not to be true.

Then I read The Colour of Magic by Terry Pratchett, the first of his Discworld novels.  Hilarious, as usual for Pratchett!  I really need to systematically work my way through everything he’s ever written.

I read Classic Horse Stories, and now I’m working on Greatest Horse Stories, both edited by Stephen Price.  I’m still trying to read all of my unread books on my shelves before the end of the year (though I begin to admit the unlikelihood of that actually happening, this late in the game), and these two somehow conjured themselves up.  The Classic stories were much better…Teddy Roosevelt, Churchill, Tolstoy…good stuff.  I debate the adjective in Greatest stories.  They’re exceedingly mediocre thus far.  Soldiering on…

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