Hooked

A slow reader by nature, I put books down quickly. I love authors who chisel and scrape to make every sentence fit the sequence of thoughts. And I admire it if they can do it with seeming effortlessness. A verbacious babbler like Murakami doesn’t stand a chance with me. Recently, The Hours (Michael Cunningham) has gotten me hooked. Smart, slow flowing, melodious but bold in its insights, it has taken me on a journey into the question of identity and the ever-nagging question of normalcy that is worth every comma. But mind you...I have only gotten to page 87 so far.