I think I have read as much in the past month (in terms of bound paper, anyway) as in the year or more before that, which is probably good: for a while I had lost my taste for SF. Around when my father's mother died, I had picked up a taste for the noir, and I wore myself out on Hammett and Chandler and then there wasn't much I cared to pick up.
Was reading lots of semi-technical nonfiction (e.g., Rands), then idonotlikepeas pushed The Subtle Knife my way and I actually got through it quickly, which I hadn't done with a novel in a while.
Last night I finished Who The Bell Tolls For over at girlgonemad and idonotlikepeas', godblessum. Contrary to expectations, the protagonist does not die in the rain on paper, though presumably he does eventually keel over in some sort of weather.
Then today I finished Michael Marshall Smith's Only Forward for the second time. Damn serious book for a funny book. Damn funny book for a serious book. One or both of those. Tickles my oroboros fetish, which is rare: I can't think of anything else but Julian May's (as they say) sprawling epic that has done that well. All should read. (Even though Smith writes a little too much like Harry Harrison sometimes.)