Did she hang out with Br. Caedfel?
Seriously, who is the author?
The book that epitomizes that for me is Snow Crash. Maybe I just have it on my mind lately because my best friend just started listening to it on the way to work, after much whining from me about how he’d love it. But I remember being 19, and my then-boyfriend lending me his copy. It took me two weeks to get around to starting it, but once I did, I read the entire thing in one night. It just did not let me put it down.
This is somewhat disappointing, as absolutely none of the author’s other work has lived up to that. I tried to start the Baroque Cycle back around 2005 or so, and couldn’t make it more than about a third of the way into Quicksilver.
The last Kathy Reichs (Bones) I read straight through - she keeps putting cliff-hangers at the end of each chapter…
Dracula. The part where the big black dog ran off the empty ship sent chills down my spine. I want to read it again now.
Norwegian Wood and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami - reading his writing is kind of like being in a dream. I read the latter book for four straight hours once while waiting in a park for my friend, and it took me more than a half hour to fully come back to reality.
About A Boy by Nick Hornby. Entertaining, if not exactly seminal. I started it one morning in a moment of boredom and found myself having finished it later that evening.
Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger. I have a bad habit of falling in love with girls in books (I don’t think I’ll ever get over Lena Lingard), and these are two superbly well-written stories.
That sounds awesome.
My latest one was An Instance of the Fingerpost, by Iain Pears. Actually, it took one or two tries for me to get into it, but I literally read the last page, and turned back to the first page to re-read. Excellent historical mystery, written quite nicely from four people’s points-of-view.