A book, read and re-read twice more, back-to-back. A story of inter-woven lives, contradictions and commonalties, set against a historical backdrop. A novel, fiction of the kind which could have been truth, is somehow truthful in the most meaningful way.
The experience of reading a transformative, transportative, one. Like reading one long, perfectly crafted sentence which you know will come to a satisfying conclusion, yet will mourn the passing of.
I leant this book to my mother, but it never came back. She was reading it when she died, you see. It was the very first item my father removed from the house – the poignancy of a half-finished novel, lying beside the bed, like a moth with spread wings, proved too much to bear.
I haven’t thought of it for nearly 4 years.
I just watched the film adaptation.
I need to buy a new copy.