I may have injured my wrist through too much knitting. Yes. Really. I'm going to see my doctor tomorrow for my usual 'why do I keep keeling over, Doctor McKay?' thing and might just ask him about my poor overworked wrists. I suspect the answer may be to lay off with the knitting for some time. At least that will give me time to finish various reads.
I'm currently halfway through Iain Pears' An Instance of the Fingerpost which reads like a mix between early Julian Barnes and Umberto Eco with a dash of classic whodunnit. David gave up on the book after about 200 pages but I find myself enjoying its slow pace, Pears' knowledge of 17th century science (unlike, say, Ross King whose Ex Libris was so, so, so inaccurate that it nearly made me cry) and the novel's multi-narrative structure. My partner bought Pears' The Immaculate Deception from Oxfam Books yesterday. It looks to be a light read, though. I might keep that for winter. I tend towards light books during the dark months.
Also on the backburner: Marilynne Robinson's Housekeeping. Back when I was in the process of moving countries, I read her Gilead. It floored me with its precise language, its exploration of 'home' and 'family' and the slow, deliberate move towards its dénouement. At that point of time, I was living out of a suitcase whilst spending nights on friends' sofas. I was susceptible to Gilead, in other words. Robinson's Housekeeping is bleaker and I cannot quite muster the calmness that her novel demands. I still adore her way of using language though.
And then there are the books which have suffered. Maps For Lost Lovers by Nadeem Aslam and Old Men In Love by my beloved Alasdair Gray (signed 1st Ed - I should scan the dedication). They're on my bedside table and deserve far more attention.
If everything else fails, of course, there's always my growing stack of knitting books..