Read this book.  It’s the best novel I’ve come across this year.  And it’s short, almost novella-short, only 161 pages.  I don’t want to say more than that —  trust me, you don’t want me to ruin it for you.

Instead, I leave you with this single passage, one of four I marked.

How often do we tell our own life story?  How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts?  And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life.  Told to others, but — mainly — to ourselves.

Read this book.  Finish this book.  And give it your full attention —-  every word, every musing, every scene, counts.  I skimmed the tiniest bit and I’m now going back to dig up what I missed.