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“I don’t want to finish this book,” I told Mr. V one night this week.
“So don’t finish it,” he retorted.
“No, I WANT to read it. I just don’t want to finish it. It’s her last book.”
Who else can write years in mere sentences without it being awkward? Who else can paint Ireland across the 20th century and into the 21st through characters beloved in only a few chapters?
I’m just pages from the end and I’m trying to enjoy it without mourning it too much. From now on I’ll just pick already-dead authors to love, I think.
Rest in peace, Maeve.