My last stop of the day was the local wine shop, so I swung into the library (conveniently located across the street), grabbed a book or four, and then continued across the street where I enjoyed a glass of wine with the start of a new book.
This book felt glittery and hopeful and wistful. It was a love letter to a different time that lamented the best of what was lost while acknowledging how much was also gained. If you are interested in British society and aristocracy, the swinging 60’s, or gentle (and sometimes harsh) character studies, this book is for you.
Duckworth argues that talent is not the defining indicator of success that we believe. She breaks down significant research and long running studies into digestible chunks. I, for one, don’t care to read pages of statistics. I’m not a scientist. What I want to read is what the reams of data tell us. I don’t think that makes me silly or shallow.
The Light of Paris does what all great (yes, I said “great”) books do. It puts you in the shoes of the protagonists, so that you occasionally blink and realize that you aren’t in the story.
The entire story is told through letters or emails between twins – Harry and Matilda. I would have thought this structure would annoy me, but it worked in this book.
This was a Sunday-afternoon, can’t-think-of-a-thing-I’d-rather-do-than-read-this kind of book. Now, I realize that tag implies a light, fluffy, beach book. And this wasn’t that. It was simply interesting.