The Atlantic this month says that there are few books about women that are not about their love lives. I know this is a big topic to start on, but I have just jotted down a few thoughts on it. Probably, I will never revisit it.
Scanning my book piles (and piles, and piles some more; book piles is a literary affliction that is caused by sitting on one’s ass reading to excess), from what I can presently see most of the books are about men. For fiction and non-fiction alike – that’s just the way the genitals crumble. I ought to count up those whose subjects are people, however I will estimate as I have just been running and I’m actually mid-post-run-eating, feeling pretty lazy. So my sample, as follows, is a teetering sixteen books.