Today I finished A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. I loved it. It is beautiful. I think my favorite thing about it is the story could be incredibly depressing, but Smith writes in such a matter-of-fact way (when it could be very sentimental) that that's not the case. The story flows like life; things happen - good and bad - and the characters get on with it.

I read this book incredibly slowly. I'm not sure why. When I would sit down with it, I could read pages and pages, but then I'd put it down for a few days before picking it up again. Maybe it's because I was sick. Maybe it's because I didn't want it to end. Maybe the book demanded to be read in small chunks rather than devoured over two days. I don't know.

Now I'm reading St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves by Karen Russell. It's short stories. I've read two so far. They're interesting. I think I'll reserve judgment until I finish all of the stories.