WHILE I WAS STILL in Amsterdam, I dreamed about my mother for the first time in years. I’d been shut up in my hotel for more than a week, afraid to telephone anybody or go out; and my heart scrambled and floundered at even the most innocent noises: elevator bell, rattle of the minibar cart, even church clocks tolling the hour, de Westertoren, Krijtberg, a dark edge to the clangor, an inwrought fairy-tale sense of doom. By day I sat on the foot of the bed straining to puzzle out the Dutch-language news on television (which was hopeless, since I knew not a word of Dutch) and when I gave up, I sat by the window staring out at the canal with my camel’s-hair coat thrown over my clothes—for I’d left New York in a hurry and the things I’d brought weren’t warm enough, even indoors. This is the beginning of The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt. How wonderful to start reading a book that opens like this! While I was still in Amsterdam reads a bit like Once Upon a Time. It reads like a tragic fairytale. It is a long book. Only 10% into it and savouring each page. Weekend delight!
Posted on: Sat, 29 Mar 2014 11:39:45 +0000
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