Lot to Love

My BFF told me to go read the Thornbirds by Colleen McCoullough. It was an interesting choice. I remember my mother reading it when I was very young because she was inspired by the mini-series. So, I must have been in third grade since it came out in '83.

So I took a month or so off to focus on enjoying a good book. I read so much non-fiction and text books and articles, it's nice to sit back and enjoy a read. And, it's a terrific book. Lyrical. Like reading James Dickey or Patrick McCormick (two of my favorites), so I'm glad she recommended it. 

I found one passage especially worthwhile.

Almost as clearly as the sun could, the moon’s still pale light picked out vast sweeping stretches of distance, the grass shimmering and rippling like a restless sigh, silver and white and grey. Leaves on trees sparkled suddenly like points of fire when the wind turned their glossy tops upward, and great yawning gulfs of shadows spread under timber stands as mysteriously as mouths of the underworld. Lifting her head, she tried to count the stars and could not; as delicate as drops of dew on a wheeling spider’s web the pinpoints flared, went out, flared, went out, in a rhythm as timeless as God. They seemed to hang over her like a net, so beautiful, so very silent, so watchful and searching of the soul, like jewel eyes of insects turned brilliant in a spotlight, blind as to expression and infinite as to seeing power. The only sounds were the wind hot in the grass, hissing trees, an occasional clank from the cooling Rolls and a sleepy bird somewhere close complaining because they had broken its rest; the sole smell the fragrant, indefinable scent of the bush.

Who can't love writing that describes grass shimmering like a "restless sigh."

A whole lot to love.