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hawkwing_lbThere is a certain consolation to literature. It is, perhaps, one of the few true constants in the universe, that a good book can lift one out of oneself and into some other place.
By that measure, Gaudy Night is one of the greatest books in existence. I reread it seldom, and always for comfort: the thought that there is solace in adherence to principle, even in the tangled, human web of existence is a very comforting one. That one might be true to oneself, and content to be so, is something that literature doesn't always admit.
But I shouldn't ramble. Busman's Honeymoon will do for a chaser.
By that measure, Gaudy Night is one of the greatest books in existence. I reread it seldom, and always for comfort: the thought that there is solace in adherence to principle, even in the tangled, human web of existence is a very comforting one. That one might be true to oneself, and content to be so, is something that literature doesn't always admit.
But I shouldn't ramble. Busman's Honeymoon will do for a chaser.
