I don't read a huge amount of fiction, except for my obsessive compulsive reading of all things Agatha Christie. However, B picked up a copy of Robertson Davies' What's Bred In the Bone the other day, and since I've packed most of our other books, I decided to give it a try.



This is my first exposure to Robertson Davies, and, uhm, wow. What in incredible book, and and what incredible story teller. As I was reading, I kept wondering if something more was going to happen, and then realizing that I didn't care -- just reading it was pleasure enough. In a way, it reminded me a bit of the way I feel when I read C.S. Lewis... you get swept away in the pleasure of the words, to the point where you almost don't care what's being said. With C.S. Lewis it's a bit different for me, as I'm always aghast at the WAY he says things, with the way he gets complex ideas across with such elegance and simplicity. I don't remember specifically thinking that at any point with Davies, but I certainly got swept up in the story and the life he was creating.

I'll be reading a lot more Robertson Davies in the new few months I'm sure... I'm excited to see what else he's written.