If I were to give my summer a title I would call it "The Summer of the Classics." For months, with the exception of two books, I have read either classics, or those that are, shall we say, getting along in years. I enjoyed those two, yet the feeling of satisfaction never quite rose to the level that it did as I read of the escapades of the March sisters, or the romance between Lucy Honeychurch and George Emerson, or the adventures at Mole End. I couldn't shake the feeling that something unexplainable was missing. I started "The Kite Runner" and a Mary Higgins Clark, but sat both aside in favor of another oldie.
This is my latest endeavor. It is approximately 4 inches thick and by the time I finish it I expect summer to be over, cooler weather to have set in and my choices in literature to be back to normal.