![]() ![]() ![]() I have been warned that the author was seriously ill while writing it, that it’s different, that people generally like it less than the others. It would be more of a surprise if I didn’t love it. It’s my catnip, pure bait – slow-paced, magical realism kind of deal with lovely prose. This is one of those book that feel practically tailor-made to my preferences. There is no way to know the shape of them, though, until your hand is on them. And you know in your heart that it isn’t-that it is the opposite of empty once it is dark, because things that do not like to be watched emerge when all of the light is gone. It is not empty merely because you cannot see all of it. Sounds become secrets, impossible to verify as true until the light returns. It stretches out and out and out in unfathomable distance and, in the absence of sunlight, turns to pure black. A desert is a lot like an ocean, if you replace all of the water with air. ![]()
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