Monday, January 4, 2010
Mater gave me a fat book by Wilkie Collins. He was her favourite many moons ago, and she hoped I would take the wordy old detective novel to heart as she did, and scratch my head over the puzzling twists and turns exactly as she had done or- better still- in my own particular way.
But I am reluctant to begin the course of reading it, hesitant to take the first steps that will, inevitably, lead to the turning of the very last page.
When Mater was a youngster, she read everything she could by the fellow. Then she wanted more. She hunted high and low. To her great sorrow, she discovered only an enormous literary void: she had inadvertently devoured Collins' two major works and- the writer being long deceased- Mater was left desolate, without a whisper of a possibility of any further treats.
It being best, in this case, to let the mystery linger, I know that Mater will understand if the volume rests a while on my bookshelf.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 10:48 PM