Having lived in the West for a long time, I recently began to miss it. The flurry and rush of moving, and moving again, had settled into a genuine calm, and I looked around me. The landscape, even the aural one, was new. People here twang. It’s very lulling. But it isn’t what I’m used to. And while I am happy here, suddenly I was also homesick, and so I went to the library.
Yes, the library.
I took out three of Tony Hillerman’s books and immersed myself in the dry, open landscape of the West.
It’s one of the pleasures of reading—that good stories can transport you someplace else for awhile.
Books are magic that way.
It’s one reason I love them.
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