These two smilers haunt me.
I’m reading Michelle de Kretser’s The Lost Dog. Some fine, fine writing by yet another author for whom Henry James is a key reference. And I remain an aspiring writer who hasn’t read a word of his or, even more shamefully, of Jane Austen.
Irritating how self judgement focuses so readily on what one hasn’t done.
So, this year I’m coming for both of them. And I’m going to start with the divine Miss A, as she’s at least polite enough not to stare so disapprovingly.
But with which book do I start?