Following Lisa Samson’s lead, I’m reading excellent contemporary fiction this year. I’m calling the endeavor Truffle Books–reading the kind of book that makes a Hershey bar whine and sniffle in marked inferiority, the kind of book that dares you to pick it up and have just one taste until you’re irrevocably hooked. Just like Lindt dark chocolate truffles.
- Each night, Liesel would step outside, wipe the door, and watch the sky. Usually it was like spillage–cold and heavy, slippery and gray–but once in a while some stars had the nerve to rise and float, if only for a few minutes.
- His clothes seemed to weigh him down, and his tiredness was such that an itch could break him in two. He stood shaking and shaken in the doorway.
- Strings of mud clench his face. His tie is a pendulum, long dead in its clock. His lemon, lamp-lit hair is disheveled and he wears a sad, absurd smile.
- Her feet scolded the floor. Air breathed up her pajama sleeves.
- There was the smell of a freshly cut coffin. Black dresses. Enormous suitcases under the eyes.
- The book thief stood and walked carefully to the library door. Its protest was small and halfhearted. The airy hallway was steeped in wooden emptiness.
If you’ve read this book, ruminate about its greatness with me. If you haven’t, do so. It’s darkness and sunshine clashing.