Within twenty or so pages of the end of this thrilling, gripping, hair-raising and utterly literary novel, I am so restless that I can barely keep my eyes on the page. SWAT teams are poised to descend upon a Unabomber-type character in the Idaho wilderness — did I mention that it’s snowing, and that the poor sacrificial lamb has to don snowshoes before hiking to the nut’s hut?

Although this is hardly a conventional “Books on Monday” filing, I may not have much more to say about A Person of Interest. I wouldn’t have said anything about Idaho and the snowshoes if it hadn’t been for the brief review in The New Yorker; I’ll have to make sure that any further beans have already been spilled elsewhere. At the same time, A Person of Interest is somewhat too good to be true, the first American novel that I’ve read in ages that could not indecently be discussed with Dostoevsky in the room. Or Nabokov. There must be ergot sewn into the binding.

Or perhaps it’s just spring fever. I sat by the balcony door, which was open to the damp, early spring freshness. Not the best idea for a cold remedy, certainly; but I felt suavely pampered.

When I get back from collecting the mail, I’ll brave the finale.

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
This entry was posted on Monday, March 3rd, 2008 at 6:09 pm.