People who read standing up have a special kind of charm. But reading in your Speedos and reef shoes, facing the turquoise sea of Sicily? Now that is a man to admire.
Sometimes I wonder what people are reading. I imagine a novel, a work of fiction, where other people's stories weave into our own. In life, and in dreams.
Could it be Murakami's Kafka on the Shore? Or One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez? A little magical realism in our lives, where the extraordinary slips into the everyday. Maybe that is the whole point.
People who read standing up have a special kind of charm. But reading in your Speedos and reef shoes, facing the turquoise sea of Sicily? Now that is a man to admire.
Sometimes I wonder what people are reading. I imagine a novel, a work of fiction, where other people's stories weave into our own. In life, and in dreams.
Could it be Murakami's Kafka on the Shore? Or One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez? A little magical realism in our lives, where the extraordinary slips into the everyday. Maybe that is the whole point.
