in which I suffer another attack of passionate booklust

So I was doing a little creative reshelving at my local Soul-less Corporate Bookstore Emporium last night, trying to look casual with my arms full of bookmarked 1984s. I was passing a display table when suddenly, the clouds parted in the heavens, and as a celestial choir sang a beam of light poured down and I fell to my knees in reverence as I beheld a glorious vision:

Emma Donoghue's new novel Life Mask, on sale in paperback for $14.00.

Now you may think I'm being hyperbolic, but then you just don't understand. I love Emma Donoghue with a love that is pure and true. I'd totally marry her and have her babies if it wasn't for the fact that some lucky Canadian woman beat me to it. Hood was a touchstone for me in college; I was so sad to have to say good-bye to it when I graduated. It's my goal in life to own all of her work. And I've been waiting for Life Mask to come out (heh) in paperback for so, so long now, because I can't afford the hardback and anyway I haven't got room on my shelves for it. But now, finally, here it is; I picked up Slammerkin while I was at it. Slammerkin was rough, a tragedy like Macbeth in its horror, but irresistable nevertheless. There really is no pleasure like that of finally owning a book you've coveted forever. I've been casting about for what to read after Beat to Quarters; nothing was really sticking with me. But I don't want to start Life Mask *just* yet; maybe this afternoon; I want to just enjoy simply having it for a bit, the anticipation of reading it. You wait for a book this long, you want to do it right, not just jump in cold.