Kushiel's Dart by Jacqueline Carey (36).
This puppy was over 800 pages, so should count at least double.
It was pretty damn good, as well, though I was a little put-off by pronoun hijinx. Where was the editor? The mismatched he's and she's weren't completely incomprehenisble, but I had to read some sentences (and paragraphs) more than once. That's just carelessness on The Man's part.
It vaguely reminded me of a hybrid of Anne Bishop meets Anne Rice meets Sharon Shinn meets Laurell K. Hamilton-- with all of their good things and few of their flaws. In fact, her flaws were all her own. The only flaw that really bugged me was that the sex could have been sexier. Maybe I'm crazy, but I felt like the author might have toned down the sex scenes-- perhaps because she knew her mother would read them? It's a lesson, it is. I just couldn't see why this courtesan was so interested in remaining a courtesan, the sex scenes were so cold. Hm. This is probably way too much information.
And it made me laugh out loud (a big, shameful braying laugh that I only do when I'm in the house alone) several times, which is cool.
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers (35).
I read this because it's a classic, and because it has a very cool name. It was enjoyable--readable and well-written--but not something that grabbed me. I think I live in the wrong era, or just have the wrong temperament, or something, and much of classic literature is lost to me. I like my florid Victorian plots too much, I guess. Or something.
I re-read Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank (34). Not a cheery book, but a good thinking book. I don't remember when I read it last-- I was probably 15. I found it comforting, then. What a strange world it is when we are comforted by post-apocalyptic novels-- mostly because of the word "post."
'Kay. I did what I had to do. By June 30th, I'd read 32 books.
Wolfhunt by Gillian Bradhshaw (30)
1632 by Flint (31)
More than a Mistress by Balogh (32)
Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire (33) (finished that one today)
Wolfhunt was a re-read, but a timely one-- as it all takes place within Rennes-Mont St Michel-Broceliande area of Brittany, where I just spent much of my month of May, it had increased in meaning.
1632 was just not good enough. I'm sorry. There was not enough pain and confusion. As much as I think I'd like Flint more as a person than S.M. Stirling, Stirling is the better writer.
The Balogh book was throw-away. I shouldn't even mention it, but I did spend a day reading it.
Georgiana was a good biography, but rather depressing. Stupid men.