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New to this whole social media thing. Expect pictures of my books, old movie stars, ancient Rome, and whatever else strikes my fancy.
Tacoma, WA.
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‘What was Leonora like? A piece of Meissen without flaw? It would be an amusing game to liken one’s friends and acquaintances to antiques.’

Leonora Eyre is an elegant, sophisticated, immaculately-manicured middle-aged woman. She has never been married, never even been in love, but it suits her: she has plenty of doting admirers to take her to delicious dinners and the theatre and gallery openings and flower shows. She is coolly satisfied.

She is also self-satisfied, always silently passing judgement and lacking a certain self-awareness, never quite noticing the similarities between herself and those she judges. She is outwardly at least, everlastingly agreeable. 

When she meets handsome young James and his widowed uncle Humphrey at a book auction, a love triangle of sorts begins: Humphrey is understandably taken with Leonora while Leonora is far more interested in James. It’s all gifts of expensive Victoriana and browsing the Sotheby’s catalogue and having one’s favorite liqueur on hand in case one drops by. 

And then James meets the bohemian Phoebe, and the casually cruel Ned, and one triangle becomes two, becomes three. Leonora remains unruffled, she is cool, composed, in control; she is a master chesswoman, deftly making her moves with precision. She will not be usurped, she will emerge victorious. But what if she doesn’t?

Barbara Pym has a reputation for ‘coziness’, as though she’s all cups of tea and only capable of an almost mundane quaintness. It’s a lazy and obtuse take on her. There is remarkable nuance to her writing; what she leaves unsaid is always just as important as what she reveals. There is so much emotion, often bubbling just under the surface of the placid facade her characters outwardly present: jealousy and disappointment and loneliness and disillusion and fear — fear of aging, of no longer being desirable, of being cast off. Her bone-dry humor also makes me laugh, which is no small feat. She is, frankly, the best.

And reading it with fellow Pym super fan Ashley @afixation? Well it doesn’t get much better than that. Every book I read with her is made better because of it. 

Book number six for #NYRBSummer.
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✨ CLOSED - TWO BOOKS GIVEAWAY ✨

Ali Smith’s GLYPH finally comes out in the U.S. tomorrow!! The good people at Pantheon and Vintage were kind enough to send me the new gorgeous hardback, as well as the paperback copy of GLIFF, but since I already have the UK editions, I’m giving both copies away to anyone living in the U.S.! 

1. Follow me at @mybookhunter.
2. Like this post and tag a bookish friend in the comments. Each tag counts as one entry. 
3. Share the giveaway in your stories (counts as 5 entries)!

I’ll pick a winner this Friday, May 22, 2026!

GLIFF:
Two things that I had never seen so deliberately kneaded together in one book: a chilling warning about where things are headed when the state decides what you are and where you belong AND a blazing embrace of (and stubborn belief in) hope in the face of tyranny. 
A novel so radical, so intelligent, so clear-eyed in its depiction of a fasc**t world that it left me bee-stung and reeling. 
A novel so inventive, so playful, so unapologetic in its portrait of exactly why said world will fail that it gave me all the light I needed to push forward in this moment. 
A masterpiece. 

GLYPH:
If “Gliff” was the first movement of this symphony, all brisk, thriller-esque and dramatic, “Glyph” is the second movement, all introspective, musical and melancholy.
If this text is played in a slightly different key, slower and more diffuse, its universe remains engrossing. Ali Smith does it again. She’ll have you eating straight out of her hand. 
Sisters. Daughters. Mothers. Fathers. Adopted daughters. Ghosts. Imagined and real. Strangers. Past and present. Histories. Stories. Passed down from generation to generation, whispered, forgotten, rekindled and reshaped. From fact to fable to myth. War. Soldiers. Resistance fighters.
An enchantment.

🐴🐴🐴
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This is a story in which I go book shopping immediately before an NHL game and then have to go through a special security line in order to bring a bag of books into an arena and the very strange look from the security lady as if no one had ever brought a book plus five to a Seattle Kraken game before. Which is still fewer books than Ottawa goals 🥶

It’s also a story in which I went back to a favorite store @arundelbooks and then two new-to-me shops Mercer Street Books and Long Brothers Fine and Rare Books this weekend in Seattle. Mercer Street was the huge winner of the weekend. I would have bought at least three more if it were for said sports event. 

I tagged a few people who inspired these purchases, for better or worse. 

Happy weekend! I hope you bought a book. 

#seattlebookstore #bookhaul #newdirectionspublishing #nyrb #22monthswithmuriel
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“Ghosts don’t exist. 
They don’t. End of. 
Story, however. 
It is haunting. 
Everything tells it.
A single detail tells it endlessly, powerful how it does, how story moves through all the modernity in its ancient green clothes and shows up everything that thinks itself new as transparent, shambling, same old; story’s as old as the hills itself and as brand new as everything that manages, against the odds, to grow fresh and new on those old hills.”

After the allegro comes the adagio. 

If “Gliff” was the first movement of this symphony, all brisk, thriller-esque and dramatic, “Glyph” is the second movement, all introspective, musical and melancholy. After the first shock of the song, it’s time to pore over the lyrics. 

If this text is played in a slightly different key, slower and more diffuse, its universe remains engrossing. Ali Smith does it again. She’ll have you eating straight out of her hand. 

Sisters. Daughters. Mothers. Fathers. Adopted daughters. Ghosts. Imagined and real. Strangers. Past and present. Histories. Stories. Passed down from generation to generation, whispered, forgotten, rekindled and reshaped. From fact to fable to myth. War. Soldiers. Resistance fighters. Journalists. Horses. Horses. Horses. 

All of Ali Smith’s legendary playfulness [listen to her speak one day if you get the chance, all jazzy and passionate, her voice in a mad race to try and keep up with her thoughts] and radical attunement to our present moment(s) are all at play here. 

Glyphs. Stories. Symbols. Denominators. Carvings.
All here to decode and unflatten our world.
All here to give a voice to what we cannot speak. 

Let the ghosts in.
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I saw that @afixation did a post about her favorite NYRBs, apparently prompted by @thewrittenroute , and so here we are!!🤗
I had to join in!!!
I am cheating because I don't own the NYRB edition of "A month in the country" but just pretend the cover is pink!!
As for my copy of Stoner, I stuck a Cézanne postcard on the front so I am showing the spine in the second photo so you can recognize it!!🤣
I vote for Three Summers as the prettiest cover!!!
There are several others on my tbr that I am looking forward to reading, like Katalin Street and Hard Rain Falling!!
Happy Reading everyone!!📚
#bookstagram # classicliterature #nyrbooks #literaryfiction #booksbooksbooks
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