been reading: The Emperor's Children by Claire Messud

Our Christmas has lasted an entire week, from the first family event last Saturday to the final one yesterday. We've had some sort of family get-together every day in between (and on some days, several), some consuming the entire day and others only hours. Both of our families are local, and so this is what happens. Everyone feels the need to get together in the small space of the week that surrounds the actual day of celebration. It's a nice thing, of course. And yet every year afterwards, I find myself slightly irritable and considering a trip (to anywhere) next year that just happens to coincide with Christmas.

I had the week off from work, and Rob took off; this has been the first time in a long time that we've had a week of vacation in which we didn't go anywhere. Except the myriad houses of relatives, of course. We've also had a decent amount (although, in my grinchy opinion, not nearly enough) of downtime at home. Time to work on projects. Time to waste. Time to read.

On several occasions this week I've had the luxury of reading for hours. I'll curl up on the sofa, my head propped on the cushioned arm, and read from the moment we finish breakfast until the rumblings in my stomach announce that lunch is long overdue. Bridget comes and goes, curling on my lap for an hour at a time, only to stand and stretch and roam the house and then return again. Last evening I read for several hours until bedtime, and then read some more in bed. I have done little else that's leisurely - have even only turned on my computer once or twice until today - except read. I'd forgotten what a reprieve reading can be.

The book to which I've been so devoted is The Emperor's Children, a novel I began in October and liked immediately but have had little time to give to until now. It's the story of three early-30-something friends who live in New York, the story of their lives from March-November of 2001. It's the first novel I've read that discusses the events of 9/11/01. And yet in no way does this novel revolve around that day or exist only to lead up to a description of the impact of that day. It is handled, frankly, as just a fact of life - albeit a fact that changes everything. What the novel is about is how these three people, and the people who both tower and cower around them, experience life. How they attempt to understand what the hell they're doing, how they express themselves honestly to one another, how they lie to protect themselves.

If I were reading this novel for a college course, this is the book I'd choose to write my final paper about. It is layered and intelligent and I can think of 15 theses right off the bat. But even for a person who doesn't have English major tendencies, it's a worthy story about the moments that make up our months and the days that make us wonder what the hell we're doing.