I’ve finished Limestone. Rather I’ve burnt through it. Will read it again soon to savour it more slowly. I did twig how it would end about three-quarters through. But I won’t reveal that. Not since I read Fiona Kidman’s Captive Wife have I been so engrossed in a New Zealand novel. They are both worthy additions to our already over-crowded bookshelves.
Anne and I are both bibliophiles. When we first got together we had separate libraries. The day we decided to merge them sealed our commitment to one another more than any vows we’d made. Where we had duplicate copies hard decisions had to be taken. School prizes took precedent. Appearance counted but sometimes dilapidation reflected a cherishing which won out. Slowly we negotiated our way through the process – second book buyers did well for a while.
One book I was very reluctant to give away was a volume of sermons given to me by Bishop of Christchurch and signed by him. “Will you read it again?” Anne asked.
“Well, why keep it?”
“We’re not a museum. Put it in the pile.”
Reluctantly I did. I’ve never felt the need for the book since it left the house. Indeed, I’d forgotten the event until my mind wandered up this particular cul-de-sac just now.
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