I bought Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight right before lunch. I plop myself into the last seat at the crowded bar at Longhorn’s, start reading, and the next thing I know, Diane the bartender is saying, “Hey, I’ve been talking to you a couple of times now and you didn’t hear a thing I said! That must be a really good book you have.”
I spent a good part of the afternoon, parked at the same spot in the progressively emptier bar, reading. What’s it about? Childhood in Africa. In a particularly war-torn chunk of it (Rhodesia/Zimbabwe).
But what’s it about? you say.
It’s about time. It’s about life. What else is there to be “about?”
The best books, which I could gather in a not-very-large box, manage to be about nothing in particular, but never let you go till the end. Rather like a tightrope walker going from one end of the cable to the other, but there is no cable. No visible support. No agenda. That’s the best.
white pebble 