palace of winds

It’s testament, I think, to Arthur and George‘s new hold over me that I forgot my purse at home this morning. I realized it only after I’d parked my car at work, half-turning toward the passenger’s seat with this sense that something was not quite right. It’s such an absurd notion, yet this is the second or third time I’ve done it in the past two years. It’s like forgetting to wear pants, or leaving a limb behind. Coming to work without one’s arm. I am id-less, wallet-less, key-card-less, library-card-less. It’s disconcerting.

I actually started reading Arthur and George this past winter; it was a new release, which the library lets out for two weeks instead of its usual three, and as a Booker Prize finalist its waiting list is rather long. I couldn’t get very into it at the time, so I returned it and got back on the list, and it finally came back up last week. And Wednesday I finally pushed myself to open it again, and now I find myself at last pulled in. I think I had so much trouble in the beginning because something terrible is happening to the main character that he is helpless against, and it twists me. I am sick and dreading and outraged and I feel the futility of his plight perhaps even more keenly than he himself does. It’s torturous, but now I’ve gotten far enough into it that it has caught me and I must now see him through it. (Or I hope to see him through it, anyhow. I can’t dwell on the thought that it might just continue, or I’ll never be able to open the book again.)