Some may wonder why, lately,
it is taking me forever to read
a relatively short novel when I
normally read at warp speed.
The last time this happened
it was either Calvino’s If
On A Winter Night . . . or
perhaps Michael Ondaatje’s
The English Patient both
of which presented the same
obstacle that I could not clear.
With those books and Rulfo’s
Pedro Paramo I want to savor
the fine drink of words the author
has served up, to let the taste
of this phrase or that sentence
linger, noting its complexity,
its body and then moving on
while clinging to the finish.
Perhaps in a few years I shall
taste this book again and find
that it has not aged well, but
for now it is a classic I do not
want to put down or finish.