Was talking books last night in a bar overlooking the Thames, and was reminded to come back to something I’d noted having finished Eleanor Catton’s The Luminaries. It’s such a large volume, but there was a lovely sense in reading the hardback of the gradual shift of weight, page by page, from the right hand to the left. It’s one of the reasons I’ve not read much on screen, but the physical sense of progression is lost, the last few pages always precious, the left hand now holding almost all that it didn’t know before, the right nearly empty, but readying itself to take the next.
Anyway, some sketched lines of reflection, to the book:
