Every so often, in spite of my knowledge of the books on my shelves that I haven't read, I let my eyes skim over the spines in the Dorothy House charity shop in Bradford on Avon's Shambles. Lately, I've been wanting to read more fiction, and two days ago I pulled off my shelves The Good Doctor, which I bought last summer, I think, at Dorothy House.
It's a short novel, a mere 215 pages, and the eloquence of the writing has me past the halfway point already, though I have only let myself read it when I can't get anything else done (i.e. on the bus, just before bed). Only by looking up reviews online did I learn it was longlisted for the Booker in 2003; if you click on the title for this post, it'll take you to the review at The Guardian. Though The Good Doctor is anything but a "happy book," I'll be sorry when I finish it.
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