I finally put Winter’s Tale to bed. All 748 pages of it. Some of which I had to skim through. Because it is a strange, wondrous tale. Because it has these gorgeous bits of writing that sing. But also because it kind of drags on and on, and too often I wanted to put it away, back in my orange library tote, to return to the library because I couldn’t stand it anymore. But I somehow, crazily, stuck it out, reading it as I air-dried my hair at night, and after. And the tale finally, finally, finally, came to an end. It was a big relief, partly because it’s due back on Thursday and I just could not stand having to renew it. But just after I typed that sentence, I remember some of that beautiful writing, the wonderful magical Lake of Cooheeries, and that great white horse.
“He moved like a dancer, which is not surprising; a horse is a beautiful animal, but it is perhaps most remarkable because it moves as if it always hears music.”
Winter’s Tale will probably stand out this year as one book that has managed to both enchant and frustrate me.
Has any book made you feel that way?