If Richard Bach had written The Little Prince.
Nah, I can't leave it at that. I know that Illusions is supposed to be cheesy now, and even on the peak of my Jonathan Livingston Seagull love I couldn't swallow the first pages of Bridge Across Forever, but Paolo Coelho is not as treacly as Bach. The young person questing for the meaning of life in the desert, though, and meeting different sorts of people, and sheep. If there had been baobab trees and I were de Saint-Exupéry (and not dead), I'd sue.
Before the book club meets on Wednesday, I will try to think of something more charitable to contribute.
We walked down to the Cherry Creek Arts Festival and I was going to buy The Alchemist from the Tattered Cover while we were there. But we passed the library and I darted in and found it. I am extremely glad I didn't buy it. The festival was okay, boilingly hot as usual, and we cooled down as soon as we left the commercial streets for the shaded sidewalks. It also began to rain, and the only amusing incident of either book or festival happened then. I tucked the book at the waist of my skirt, because nothing gets wet under the tit umbrella. Apparently this is an expression I had never used in RDC's hearing before.