Adults, waiting for tomorrow, move in a present behind which is yesterday or the day before yesterday or at most last week: they don’t want to think about the rest. Children don’t know the meaning of yesterday, or even of tomorrow, everything is this, now: the street is this, the doorway is this, the stairs are this, this is Mamma, this is Papa, this is the day, this the night.
This book, hanging out at the edges of my TBR list for a long time now, I’ve finally read it. Listened to it, actually. And that matters. I probably wouldn’t have bothered to finish if I was reading with my eyes. But the audible narration carried me along. It’s well written, but too much work for me. I didn’t care enough. There are more books to tell the story of these two friends of a particular time and particular place. But I don’t need to read them.