Monday evening I sat down with a cup of black coffee to rediscover a book that I read back in 2009 when I was 18-years-old. Opening The Thirteenth Tale was like meeting an old friend again, after many years had past, only to realize you both are now two different creatures but with the same expectations. I remember loving the book a lot, being trapped in it, being lost without it. It is beginning to have almost the same effect, but it is not the same. I was a new avid reader when I first got my hands on Diane Setterfield's book, so I was very ignorant about what else was out there. But maybe it is my fault. Maybe I have turned my back on this kind of rich, flamboyant, chatty writing style for too long. While I read the book for a second time, I am finding it is very claustrophobic, it leaves little room to breathe. I wouldn't say the magic is lost, but it is quite a devil getting use to it again. 


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