I’m still in the grip of Babel Tower. I want to read another like it, but, at the same time shy away from anything as emotionally taxing. I remember the same feeling on finishing Anna Karenina. So I’m toying with the idea of reading Durrell’s Alexandra Quartet, for its rich, precise language, but tempted by Angela Carter – for the language and the very different landscape; wondering about rereading hectic Midnight’s Children; and at the same time mulling over Cormac McCarthy’s bleak spare text. I don’t want to be entertained, but immersed.
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