Wonderful so far - grabs you right out of the gates.
Fantastic style, great construction, doesn't go out of its way to describe every detail of 1930s life but leaves it to our imaginations. And I'm only about 50 pages in.
Anyway, it occurs to me:
We used to be a nation built on legends, then on stories. We've now become a nation built on anecdotes.
We used to aspire to be legends and giants, now we want to be personalities, or even worse, we are people who worship personalities or want to be close to personalities. What kind of person dreams of being in someone else's posse?
That's it. Maybe I'm just being nostalgiac because of the book, or maybe the whole Paris Hilton/Fred Durst world that we live in sucks mightily.
I'm going to have some chocolate now...
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