So there was guilt in that not-wanting-to-read-it feeling.

One learning to tiptoe around unmentionables so that tomorrow might come, the other tramping on taboos like there was no tomorrow. One living in a no-go area 'over the road' from another no-go area, the other living in a come-and-go-as-you-please area alongside other come-and-go-as-you-please areas. One from 'over the border', the other from 'under the border', compassly speaking. It came from the suspicion that Pinkbook's narrator and I might be of a similar vintage. It's because of the amazing ability of the sun to set gloriously even upon inglorious circumstances.Īnd I'm clearer about why I had that not-wanting-to-read-it feeling. Not that I like my mind being made up for me as a rule, though I don't like rules much either. I've wanted to read Pinkbook ever since I first heard about it, though I've not wanted to read it for all that time too, so Somebody sending it over was like my mind being made up for me by Somebody Else. The pink-covered book looks unread and I worry about creasing the spine of said pink book but I crease it anyway, and quickly. What had I thought? That it would be green? Or white? Or maybe orange? And a surprise to find the colour pink dominating the cover. Somebody gave me their copy of the Man Booker winner today because I'm down with 'flu.

Milkman a novel