Is it possible to be happily married and love your husband and still fall in love with another man? One whom you have never met, no less? One who writes prose like a poet; who, with a few spare, well chosen words can conjure a world of feeling? If so, then I am officially in love with Peter Pouncey.
I do not have a favorite genre or a favorite author. I don't care much for science fiction. Spy novels and mysteries leave me cold, and I hurry past the romance shelves at the bookstore with a shudder. My taste in books, if you want to call it something, is eclectic. My favorite book at any time is the one I'm reading now.
This summer, by accident more than design, I seem to have read more books by male authors than usual. I loved The Kite Runner, and The Piano Tuner held me in thrall. Then, at the library recently, I picked up Rules for Old Men Waiting. The author's picture showed a serious, white-haired, older gentleman looking out quizzically at the camera. Intrigued, I brought him home. War and marriage and loss and love. I laughed, I wept, I was mesmerised, and jealous of his use of language. And now, too soon, it's over and I'm bereft. I love you Mr. Pouncey. Write another.
2 comments:
Now would it be some sort of weird family love triangle if I were to read Mr. Pouncey's book and also fall in love? You do have me intrigued, however. Have you read Anne of Green Gables yet?
No [shamefacedly].I will soon, especially with all this time on my hands....
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