I often put books down and don't go back to them for weeks or months. Unless I utterly love what I am reading. I loved Say Her Name by Francisco Goldman, although it's almost entirely lacking in lightness. A horribly sad story - based on real life - and I liked it because the characters are flawed, and the writing meticulous. I did find it hard to read as a novel though, I read it more as a (fictionalised) memoir, though if the author says it is a novel, then a novel it is. I quite liked Tea on the Blue Sofa by Natasha Illum Berg. It's very slim and I chose it because of its name. The writing can be clunky - and at times indulgent - but there are beautiful moments and the background is startling (which I knew nothing of until after I'd read the book). Also based on a true story of losing the love of one's life, but her lover is not presented as flawed, instead impossibly idealised. I returned this book to the library recently, it's like the airport now, all automated and scanned. I've just gone back to The Hare with Amber Eyes by Edmund de Waal. This book reminds me of my wee aunt because I got it when I was up north seeing her at the beginning of the year. I enjoy the writing but it's very detailed so a little goes a long way. The other night, I opened at the bookmark and read the line: Ignace was the second richest banker in Vienna, owning another huge building on the Ringstrasse and a block of buildings for the bank. I thought who the hell is Ignace, I'd completely forgotten. I had to go back to the family tree and remind myself, but the essence of the characters had gone and it took me a while to get back in. I will definitely finish this book though because the writing is so good and I knew nothing of netsuke before this. But gone are the days when I would force myself through a book out of a sense of duty or discipline.