Monday, January 17, 2011
As I've written before, I read in a grim kind of way. Responding to my own child's requests for food and attention with that unseeing glance, that ageless glance of the obsessed. It cannot be helped. Anyway, a month ago I discovered an old paperback by Mary Stewart, the author of the classic romantic suspense novel, in our local bookstore.
Since my discovery, I've been of no use. I haven't had such fun with an author in years. Her novels are light and fast-moving. So many confused identities, crumbling mansions, and hidden gardens, all coupled with tragedy in an unfamiliar countryside. All of the characters are delightfully British and the novels are light and fast-moving and wonderfully written.
There is something to be said for a good story in the gloom of winter n'est-ce pas?