Days are darkening ever earlier. The moon glows coldly in the night sky. Winter is coming.
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Curl by the flickering fireplace, nestled in your favorite chair, let your hand rest lightly upon this book. As it snows, pick it up. Begin.
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A Gothic book lover's book in the style of "Jane Eyre" and "Wuthering Heights", it starts deliciously set in an old bookshop and I found myself lost amidst images of dusty volumes begging to be lovingly perused and gently opened, agreeing wholeheartedly as I read,
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"I've nothing against people who love the truth. Apart from the fact that they make dull companions. Just so long as they don't start on about storytelling and honesty, the way some of them do. Naturally, that annoys me. But provided they leave me alone, I won't hate them. My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightening strikes shadows in the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don't expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie."
