I’ve always got a couple books going. Generally, it’s a mix of fiction and non. I like to have options. Some get read cover-to-cover, fast. Some linger by the bed for months.
This morning I happened to finish both of my two most recent reads as I hid, once again, from the summer’s heat. It was an odd combination: Diana Athills’ Somewhere Towards the End, an 89 year old’s memoir, and Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, which presumably needs no introduction.
I liked the resonant dissonance of the very personal writers’ writer’s introspection and the spare script on the tail of a popular phenom.
Both very British. Both contemplations of lives well-lived, of the inevitability of death and the importance of friendship along the way. One of paper, the other only ether. Neither long, but coming after much has already transpired. Each an opportunity to revisit, to reframe.
Didn’t really plan for it, but the pairing was actually quite lovely.