... but they're not this book, this book that I'm reading, these lives, lots of them yet each one amazingly well drawn, that I'm so caught up in. So don't tell me to pick up some other book this weekend. I've got miles of them, tall tottering to-read piles, but it's unthinkable that I could break the grip of this novel by starting another. I can imagine starting some nonfiction, and perhaps I will, but a novel, no no no. That would be like taking a walk in Brazil, turning a corner and finding myself in Iran. My mind is immersed in Portuguese, how am I supposed to suddenly understand Farsi?
And yes I checked the Queens library and no there's no solution there. First thing this morning I got online in hopes there'd be an available copy of this novel at my branch library so I could run over there and check it out. Sadly, there isn't.
