I can’t get enough water. Salt, lake, or river in mud, water. These days I need to drink loads of it, stand by it, stare at it, jump into it, sink.
Or try not to sink, rather, being the well-below-average swimmer I am. Side-stroker, dog-paddler extraordinaire.
It’s as though water has been rationed all my life and only now can I finally, finally, have all the water I want, whenever I want it. Ice. Or ice cold. No lemon. And no cucumber, either — what’s with the cucumber you find in water at the gym or in a salon? Plain old-fashioned icy water, please.
If I leave the house and drive away and realize I’ve forgotten my water, I will turn around the drive back to get it.
I don’t read much crime or mystery, but these are so beautifully rendered (literary fiction gone evil and dark) and I can’t resist the pathologist Quirke or the constant mists and rain of 1950’s Dublin.
After this, I swear I’m moving on. Maybe.
Here’s what’s in my next-up stack:
Amor Towles RULES OF CIVILITY
Gillian Flynn SHARP OBJECTS
Maeve Binchy (RIP Maeve) EVENING CLASS
Rohinton Mistry A FINE BALANCE
Here’s to this stack of books, a comfy chair on the patio (right after the sun has gone down) and a tall, sweaty glass of ice water.