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Ik ben verslaafd aan beginnen in boeken. Nu moet ik ze maar eens uitlezen.

For some reason I've opted to attempt to read this book for a second time. It still seems to me the kind of book that could not leave itself alone, trying, out of insecurity, to intervene in its narrative by adorning it with supposedly 'pretty' but ultimately meaningless language, which oftentimes does little more than interrupt and distract from its own narrative.

He burned in the presence of his mother.
I hardly know you anymore, she said leaning against the doorway of his room.
It had rained suddenly at suppertime,
now sunset was startling drops at the window. Stale peace of old bedtimes
filled the room. Love does not
make me gentle or kind, thought Geryon as he and his mother eyed each other
from opposite shores of the light.