Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability. This title recounts her lifelong obsession with books. The author is the sort of person who learned about sex from her father's copy of "Fanny Hill", and who once found herself poring over a 1974 Toyota Corolla manual because it was the only thing in her apartment that she had not read at least twice. Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader : Poster: Amazon.es: Libros Selecciona Tus Preferencias de Cookies Utilizamos cookies y herramientas similares que son necesarias para permitirte comprar, mejorar tus experiencias de compra y proporcionar nuestros servicios, según se detalla en nuestro Aviso de cookies. As someone who played at building bricks with ther father's 22-volume set of Trollope, and who considered herself truly married only when she and her husband merged book collections, she is well-equipped to expand upon the perverse pleasures of compulsive proofreading, the satisfactions of reading aloud, and the siren call of literary gluttony. Writing with humour and erudition, Fadiman revives the tradition of the well-crafted personal essay, moving easily from anecdotes about Coleridge and Orwell to tales of her own pathologically literary family. This witty collection of essays recounts a lifelong love affair with books and language. Perfectly balanced between humor and erudition, Ex Libris establishes Fadiman as one of our finest contemporary essayists.Paperback. There is even a foray into pure literary gluttony–Charles Lamb liked buttered muffin crumbs between the leaves, and Fadiman knows of more than one reader who literally consumes page corners. As someone who played at blocks with her father’s 22-volume set of Trollope (“My Ancestral Castles”) and who only really considered herself married when she and her husband had merged collections (“Marrying Libraries”), she is exquisitely well equipped to expand upon the art of inscriptions, the perverse pleasures of compulsive proof-reading, the allure of long words, and the satisfactions of reading out loud.
Writing with remarkable grace, she revives the tradition of the well-crafted personal essay, moving easily from anecdotes about Coleridge and Orwell to tales of her own pathologically literary family. For Fadiman, as for many passionate readers, the books she loves have become chapters in her own life story. Anne Fadiman is–by her own admission–the sort of person who learned about sex from her father’s copy of Fanny Hill, whose husband buys her 19 pounds of dusty books for her birthday, and who once found herself poring over her roommate’s 1974 Toyota Corolla manual because it was the only written material in the apartment that she had not read at least twice.
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