Book: The Blind Assassin
I don’t read many books.
I know I should read more. I want to read more. But there are always distractions. It doesn’t take that much to divert my attention but once I’ve passed one or two days a partially read book can quickly become a distant memory.
Not so with this book – The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood.
I read most of it a few years ago. At least I think I read most of it. I look at the damaged spined and try and work out how far I got through it. I think I’ve passed that point now, but I can’t be sure.
Whatever point I got to, I do remember where I was when I first got into Atwood’s writing. Sat in the back garden of two friends who live on the south coast, I remember staring up at the converted railway carriage we’d been staying in over the August Bank Holiday weekend and thinking “fuck me, this is good”.
I know I’ve passed that point in the book already and hope that this time around I’ll make it to the end. What I’m reassured by is how easy it is to pick up after a couple of days break from it. Surely this is the mark of a good book.