5/22/2023 0 Comments Sommarskuggor by Boel BermannReading my friends words scribbled on the first page made me feel as chosen as Richard, to be included into their group of friends. I remember being mesmerized by the words, sitting on the porch of an old Swedish country house drinking my coffee. But somehow I found the courage to read it. Knowing what the book meant to them, I was afraid it wouldn’t fulfill my expectations and thereby I’d letting them down in some way. My newfound friends from school had given me the novel as a gift, but I had been hesitant to read it. Francis had given my clothes to Mrs Hatch to be laundered putting on a bathrobe he’d lent to me, I went downstairs to sit on the porch for a few minutes before the others woke up. Outside, it was cool and still, the sky the hazy shade of white peculiar to autumn mornings, and the wicker chairs were drenched with white dew.” “On Sunday I woke up early to a quiet house. When I try to recall my first experience with Donna Tartt’s novel The Secret History, it always blends together with the end of that summer I spent in the countryside and these words from the novel itself:
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