<pomposity(?)>
Reading is a solitary act; temporary transportation to another world, whether it's the 'real' world or the world(s) of fantasy and imagination. I don't give myself the opportunity for such transport very often these days - reality impinges too harshly to allow such frivolous recreation.

"So, what the hell does this have to do with Fragile Things?"

I just finished THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF THE DEPARTURE OF MISS FINCH, and am truly enjoying the new roads that have been revealed by 'the other Mr. G.*'

Setting is important - my personal, at present, is at mom's house, scenic, where I spent my youthful (bored) summers as a child, with most of the family (current time) out of the house and a couple of black 'n tans under my belt on a hot summer's day.

out of self, out of time
</pomposity>

That's my short take - atmosphere, but no substance . Thanks for playing.

* you can tell from my avatar notes who brought me back into fiction.

quote:

Originally posted by duncan s.:

That's my short take - atmosphere, but no substance . Thanks for playing.

I felt the same way about a lot of Fragile Things. I liked Smoke and Mirrors better. Fragile Things, to me, felt cold. The temperature, not the emotion. There was something of distance and fearful memory in it, too. But it was too removed from itself.
If that makes any sense.