Unlike the overwrought and overthought novella I read in the coffeeshop this afternoon, this was actually enjoyable to read. Darkly witty turns of phrase, an almost acid misanthropy, a story that unfurls with remarkable grace; some obvious noise coming from the basement, er, subtext, about dementia and aging and family and grief--all handled deftly, nothing overweening, the story sits clearly and proudly on top. Probably the author's first concern was getting through a rough patch in her life, but she clearly cared about the reader's enjoyment in the novel.
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Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury
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