behenji's bookcase is bursting....hooray!

behenji has just ordered some books, courtesy of bohemian bhai's generous birthday gift certificate.

what did behenji order:

"White Teeth: A Novel" by Zadie Smith

"Snow (Vintage International)" by Orhan Pamuk

"The Cinnamon Peeler : Selected Poems (Vintage International)" by Michael Ondaatje

"The Apple's Bruise : Stories" by Lisa Glatt


"How to Breathe Underwater (Vintage Contemporaries)" by Julie Orringer

As a birthday gift to herself, behenji bought "The Time Traveller's Wife" by Audrey Niffenegger. read an excerpt on amazon.com and was hooked, reeled in, caught.

here's a little taste (and no, behenji is not shoving a samosa down your throat):

How does it feel?

It feels exactly like one of those dreams in which you suddenly realize that you have to take a test you haven't studied for and you aren't wearing any clothes. And you've left your wallet at home.

When I am out there, in time, I am inverted, changed into a desperate version of myself. I become a thief, a vagrant, an animal who runs and hides. I startle old women and amaze children. I am a trick, an illusion of the highest order, so incredible that I am actually true.

Is there a logic, a rule to all this coming and going, all this dislocation? Is there a way to stay put, to embrace the present with every cell? I don't know. There are clues; as with any disease there are patterns, possibilities. Exhaustion, loud noises, stress, standing up suddenly, flashing light-any of these can trigger an episode. But: I can be reading the Sunday Times, coffee in hand and Clare dozing beside me on our bed and suddenly I'm in 1976 watching my thirteen-year-old self mow my grandparents' lawn. Some of these episodes last only moments; it's like listening to a car radio that's having trouble holding on to a station. I find myself in crowds, audiences, mobs. Just as often I am alone, in a field, house, car, on a beach, in a grammar school in the middle of the night. I fear finding myself in a prison cell, an elevator full of people, the middle of a highway. I appear from nowhere, naked. How can I explain? I have never been able to carry anything with me. No clothes, no money, no ID. I spend most of my sojourns acquiring clothing and trying to hide. Fortunately I don't wear glasses