In places, the prose is devastatingly beautiful - begging to be read aloud - exhaled at a whisper in the middle of the night - passing the warmth of your lips only to be inhaled sharply by your tendermost heart.
Witty in places...
"He was clearly fearless in the face of cholesterol."
or
"I kissed her very carefully, just in case she decided to bite me."
lyrical in others...
"...caught at last in the rising flood of warm air, carrying the sand from the south. The Alps are folded above the flickering light."
and with a transportive tangible quality...
"Her other room was a startling, decadent mass of reds; a scarlet bedspread threaded with gold, an old Turkish carpet which was her father's gift, a turbulent web of ochre, brown and gold. The lampshades, adorned with hanging tassels of red lace, has escaped from a Regency brothel. She had a huge, empty birdcage, shaped like a bell jar. On her desk was a mass of paper, overrun with her precise and tiny handwriting."
I'm only about a quarter through, starting last night, but with a pacing to digest between readings, but I'm looking forward to the rest. Duncker's writing is calling to me.
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