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Books that leave me breathless

This morning I feel at a complete loss, having just finishing reading The Song of Achilles. Except, that is, to sing the praises of Madeline Miller, whose 10-year endeavour – a story she has clearly lived and breathed since she was a child – is nothing less than spectacular. With the Costa prize under her belt and an impatiently baying audience, my song for her is that she will be granted a stay of time to produce something of equal richness and depth and not be forced into ‘difficult second album territory.’    

This month, too, I have journeyed the streets of 18th Century Paris in the company of Andrew Miller and Pure, and I have taken the grand tour, running to keep apace with The Night Circus (Erin Morgenstern). 

If you, like me, need an interim read before you are ready to open the pages of a new novel, may I suggest  Jenny Lawson’s Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, which left me laughing inappropriately loudly on public transport under the glare of fellow commuters. (Perhaps a precautionary visit to her website is advisable best before you purchase, just in case, like those friends I have failed to convert (your loss),  you are easily offended. In fact, if the tag-line ‘Like Mother Teresa, only better’ makes you flinch, don’t even go there.)