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Photo by Gail Harvey, no reproduction without permission

Anchors

I'm slowly making my way through Michael Chabon's novel, "The Yiddish Policemen's Union". 'Slowly' might suggest that it's a tough read, hard-going or easy to set aside, but in fact the opposite is true. I have to read as if access to the supply of Chabon's miraculous brain is limited, a form of rare nectar that can only be tasted every few years. Instead of abandoning daily tasks to devour this great novel, I have rationed myself to bedtime-only injections. Making my way to the final third of the novel, a feeling of dread creeps in: I do NOT want this book to end. That's a rare occurrence, for while there are many good novels in the world, there are very few that inspire such readerly attachment. I'll miss Landsman and the streets of Sitka, so I read more and more slowly. I quietly wonder what I will dare to read next with this wonderful story still vibrating in my brain. Toni Morrison's books also have this effect. She is not one to pump out tomes and so the occasion of a new novel from her is a cause for much dancing in bookstore aisles.
Luckily the day is bright and sunny and not at all a sensible day to sit inside and read and miss the County air. I have the great good fortune of working with a group of young writers this afternoon for a couple of hours and then it's back out into the sunshine, with one of the best drives home in the world. And yes, later, much later, another much-needed hit from the brain of Chabon. Great books and excellent music on the stereo and gingersnaps: sweet anchors all.

Listening to: GusGus: Polyesterday