It's very late tonight, approaching tomorrow actually, and I am luxuriating in the quiet of a house which has been cleaned throughout the day and is now resting. As I am.
How lovely it is to take this book down from the shelf, to find its pages yellowed since I last read it in what? 2006? I can't remember, but I remembered how much I loved it then, and I shiver to discover how much I am loving it now.
There is something about the narrator which resonates with me. Not that I went to an international school, or that my father was a diplomat, or that I discovered an old book on the top shelf of his library with mysterious personal letters tucked inside.
No, it is the odd little phrase which makes me catch my breath, such as this one: "I preferred solitude anyway; it was the medium in which I had been raised, in which I swam comfortably." (p. 4)
It is precisely the sort of book I adore, one with an eerie aura and a heroine after my own heart.
It promises to be a wonderful night ahead.
