I cannot wait to read this one.
In a few minutes I heard the books’ voices: a low, steady, unsupressible hum. I’d heard it many times before. I’ve always had a finely tuned ear for a library’s accumulations of echo and desire.
Sometimes the best books are stuffed into clearance along with a thousand copies of Jodi Picoult for me to find and adore. “Adore” does not come close to describing how I feel about the slim paperback I pulled from a corner in Clearance Fiction, haphazardly stacked beneath piles of mass produced easy reading after the weekend warriors pawed through and reconfigured the section on a Saturday night.
I discovered this wintry, wistful, quixotic book while the first norther of the season was coming through Dallas. It took me a few days of picking it up here and there to finish it, curled up on my couch with either a cup of coffee or hot tea (depending on the time of day).
I read the entire book in…
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