In which we are enchanted in a soberly fashion.
Waiting for Snow in Havana: Confessions of a Cuban Boy had to wait, half-read, on the shelf while I made my way through Hobb and Fforde. This was an unwarranted slight on my part, and I apologise. Eire describes his childhood in Cuba in vivid detail and on occasion you almost feel the sun on your face as you watch him and his brother blow up lizards. From his father – who thinks he is the reincarnation of a French king – to the tiny figure of Castro as he addresses the people, the book invokes a magical – though by no means problem-free – childhood turned upside down because of a revolution.