Lemony Snicket could not come because he was paralyzed below the armpit by an bite inflicted by an alligator at a picnic. In his stead, a man who didn't identify himself appeared, ran about, and taught us three important lessons:
1. Never raise your hand thus exposing your armpit.
2. If you see Count Olaf, count to zero, scream, and run away.
3. If you squeeze anything hard enough--a change purse, your grandmother, an accordion--it will make noise.
Then he played the accordion.
He failed to teach the most important lesson, though, which is that if you don't know your companion well enough for extended conversation or to make listening to your audiobook an option, you'd better damn well bring a book longer than 90 pages for the nearly two hours your companion is willing to wait to have books signed.
By Rebecca West, with vagues shades of Atonement in class and war, and of Hemingway in deft prose, and of perhaps no one but herself in perfect, haunting, yet succinct characterization. Ninety pages, yet I finished the book feeling like I knew more about its characters than those in many a longer novel, and this despite icebergs of unrevealed emotion. Splendid and fine.