Some books deserve some small sort of ceremony once you've put them down. Remember how long you took to read them; and know how quickly you could have done. But you'd not want it to end, would you.
I've lived more than seven thousand days and read through at least a seventh of them. How many books do you suppose you could go through in close to that much time? Many; and who knows how few will stay, and for how long after they're done..I've been trying not to finish this book for days now. I would say that I hope you read it, if you haven't already, but really I don't think I'd mean it this time. There's things you can't explain. And so I will not try.
I don't know what I love about this book so much. The sad simple story. The crumpling of its people. This music so big I will not understand. Or may be because it reveals so widely how much I haven't been taught..who knows what I'd be playing if I wasn't this uneducated in my own tiny capacity as a musician. Take away a guitar and leave some other strings in its place. A violin a harp a lyre? A holy mess, may be.
I rave about a lot of people who wrote a lot of things, I know. But I hope you see that this isn't like that. I would have put the book away after reading it and sat quietly alone for the rest of the day, its the type of book that needs some brooding, but there's too many things to do. And it just seems wrong to put it away and sit down to paint a shoe, no moment of silence in its honour or well, you know. You know what I mean.
P.s. This replaces Shadow Lines as my favourite by an Indian author.