I'd just finished The Gourmet- yesterday afternoon while on the bus to meet Leon. This is the kind of book that replaces the way you see things (not only food as the title may suggest, but all walks of life) with surrogates, and says so frequently the things we all think about, hide within in shame or not, or brush aside with little to no care, in concise, ornate language. This is my kind of book, one which uses the words everyone understands only just a wee, but pulls in attention in a dreary, intriguing addiction.
On the first page already lies one of my favourite quotes: the ecstasy of unbridled power, when one need no longer struggle but merely enjoy the spoils of battle, and savour without cease the headiness that comes from inspiring fear, something that speaks of my before-unspeakable joy of rise in council, choir, wherever. The line then led me to more that chronicles my journal in stimulating silhouettes I could not.
In the degree of seven-half/eight out of ten, The Gourmet is my book.
If I could I would save a space in my bag for the nestling of the novella forever, so whenever the time comes for me to explain a certain complex ideology that goes on in the back of my sense, instead of erring around words that I don't like e.g.: "er", I can flip through the book with habit and land on the highlighted paragraph which contains my meaning. I would like that very much but 1) not everything of my thoughts is articulated in there, and 2) I should make way for others of a nine to ten degree calibre to encompass both my mind and heaviness of sack.
I have The Elegance of the Hedgehog in my Book Depository basket.
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