A Most Excellent Novel
A most excellent novel, chock full of my favorite ingredients. It was freighted, dense and quirky. Love them kind. it was written by a woman, and I love them kind, too.
It came in a little classic brown jacket, probably of the Everyman library. It was recommended in an article by someone I had read of elsewhere. Faulkneresque, it was labeled. Boy, show me to it.
I could not find it. Everywhere I searched for it - online, at our extensive bookshop - I came up empty. I could not even find it listed anywhere. I was embarrassed to conclude the "article" where I'd read the review was actually a short story. Okay, I say, I'll go back and see if there is a fiction identifier in the piece which recommended the ghost novel.
I could not find it. Everywhere I looked, at home and online, was dry of any notion of any series of paragraphs anywhere which may have boosted the Femme Faulkner.
What was the name of that novel anyway? I tried to think. Can't remember. But the author's name ... escapes me.
Oh, well, I know I could ask someone who will know... if I'd taken a class anywhere ever. Then I would be able to fit both writers and their production into oeuvres with a professor guide up at the U.
Wait ... what was the name of the author of the recommendation?