The ultimate leisurely read
Updated On: 29 August, 2025 07:02 AM IST | Mumbai | Rosalyn D`mello
I cannot recommend enough the enthralling murder mysteries of American novelist Donna Leon, who captivates readers with her poignant narrative style
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American writer Donna Leon at the BCNegra Literature Festival on February 10 in Barcelona, Spain. PIC/GETTY IMAGES
As a working mom of a kindergarten kid and a five-month-old, reading a book for the sheer thrill of immersing myself in a fictional world feels like something audacious and gratuitous — like day drinking. I’ve always been a voracious reader, but my practice as a writer, researcher, educator, and editor has ensured that my reading list has always aligned with my intellectual consciousness. My innate tendency is to choose books that relate to the subject of my informal studies. My shadow library is full of digital versions of books about gender studies, feminist thinking, art criticism, and philosophy. My editorial work ensures I am constantly updating my art and critical vocabulary, and my freelance career as an art critic involves always looking at art with intent and purpose — never quite for the sake of pure pleasure. This doesn’t mean I don’t allow myself to feel awe or joy, just that these activities have always been intimately tied to work and productivity.
Until recently, I couldn’t even recall the last time I read a book without a pencil in my hand to underline relevant sections, or using multiple coloured highlighters to sort through the various textual strands of enquiry. I’ve always been a critical reader, one who hunts between the lines for truths that might be essential to my existence, or that may validate my subjectivity. In my undergraduate years, mark-making while reading was my way of coming ‘into the know’, accessing the world of ideas and philosophy. I fell in love with the concept of learning new ways of not only being in the world but articulating the experience of it. While many of my peers who weren’t studying literature were content reading Danielle Steel and John Grisham and other potboilers, I felt more ‘at home’ with George Eliot, the Bronte sisters, Virginia Woolf, Iris Murdoch, Henry Miller and my absolute favourite, at that time, Jeanette Winterson.
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