I’m currently reading Little, Big by John Crowley and I’d like to recommend it to you—but I can’t.
When I’m actually reading the book it’s great. The pages turn and the plot surprises. But when I stop reading it I ask myself, “Why am I reading a book about rich hippies that talk to fairies?” It’s a good question.
It’s a good book though—when I’m reading it and not reflecting on it. And, I mean, to be fair, I’m not even halfway done. I won’t be surprised if it turns out to be a favorite of the year. Plus, any book that throws out a sentence like, “And twenty-five years passed” and still survives, is special.
But really, rich hippies talking to fairies, it’s tough to get over.
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