dust

Yesterday I broke my french press, which didn't cause quite the mess I expected. But still, I need a new french press and a soap dish and some other things. I intended to go out and procure these things. But I didn't.

Instead, I sat down and started reading Dust by Joan Frances Turner. (You can learn about that here) I started reading, and could not stop reading. I read the entire thing today. It was just that compelling, that interesting. Seriously, this book is fascinating and hard to quantify. It's spooky. It's also a compelling and wonderful take on a mythos that is coherent and amazing and does not involve sparkles. It defies easy categorization. This is a book about the undead but it isn't just that.

(There is a part of me that thinks it is terribly unfair for me to rip through a novel in a day that I know took the author a long, long time to write. I remember when this novel was a very secret project, its specifics never mentioned. Now it is sitting on the arm of my chair in hardback form with a smooth dust jacket and a map drawn on the inside of the cover.)

I'm going to read it again, perhaps a little slower.