It's not quite as bad as Edith's dreams. Not quite. But almost. And that's because Suzette Mayr has a way of writing that pricks beneath the skin. "That night Edith dreams of hares. Hares hanging by their necks, throttled by catgut in a thicket of trees. Someone has executed
"In the lane, I had already lost a boot and fallen on my knees so that now my trousers were soaked and one of my socks was sodden and the bottoms of both my sleeves were freezing against my wrists." Harper Collins, 1990 This is Timothy Findley, writing
So Iris' Dutch Lit month was in June, right? Many of you likely participated during June. Which, of course, was the point: a shared celebration of Dutch Lit. I was planning to do that too. And I did have my copy of Hella S. Haasse's The Tea Lords well ahead
