In which it is necessary to remind the reader of the importance of tissues.
I’ve just swallowed Tony Parsons’ Man and Boy whole. Not literally, obviously, or I’d be in the hospital right now, but in as few hours as is compatible with thorough reading. I read the first few pages (20? 30?) a week or maybe more back and got distracted, but this afternoon I picked it up again, and I couldn’t put it down. This was absolutely not what I was meant to do this afternoon. I was meant to do some work and maybe fix that bunad (17th of May looming larger on the horizon every day), but alas, alack.
So. Man and Boy is a compelling read. I suppose that’s established. It’s not the best book I’ve ever read, the ending, for example, has left me a bit deflated. This is not to say it’s bad, just that it could have been better. Still, I am near enough convinced that I will be reading every other Parsons book I can lay my hands on, so I suppose the publishers will be happy.