I’m not totally averse to buying hardcovers but am instead only mostly averse. I bought two. They are expensive. But they look good and feel good. But not good for traveling. And they take up a lot of space on your shelves. But sometimes you just got to get them. And so: with Anthony Doerr’s All the Light We Cannot See, I’d heard and read enough about it (World War II, chaste love story, a French girl, a German boy) to know that it might be up my alley. And it was. A little sentimental in spots, but the writing was mostly very nice, very pretty. I enjoyed the short-chapter structure. It’s a mix of lyrical literary and straight-up page-turning everybody-wants-the-diamond story. I read it in six or seven bursts.
And the other one, from one of my favorite fiction writers. The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguro. Am reading it now. About two-thirds through. One of the most compelling, world-making first couple of pages you’ll ever read. And now it’s turned into very much of an adventure story, a journey with dangers around every corner. Strange for him, though I’ve read that he likes to do something pretty drastically new every novel. That he gets bored with doing the same thing twice. Other than the memory-within-a-memory thing that he does over and over in Never Let Me Go and in The Remains of the Day, this one has tons more plot and story. I’m glad I picked up both. And after these I think I’ll read a quiet little internal novel.