if nobody speaks of remarkable things

I think I picked up this book more or less at random, on a bookshelf in London on a winter day, while I was waiting for my best friend to come meet me in the coffeeshop. I suppose I must have put it aside, and it got lost in my piles and piles of books back home. Well, I finally picked it up the other day, and started reading. The beginning of the novel is intricate and very detailed; different actions by several people doing their thing on a morning like all the others; a couple waking up, kids going out on the street to play, a man washing his car. The narrative always switches back and forth between this descriptive street life and the story, told in the first person, of a girl who used to live on that street.
What I liked most about this was how amazing Jon Mcgregor makes the ordinary seem. Every little movement has beauty in it, every image he describes is poetry. One wants to rush to the end, know what is that event that should be the climax of the story and at the same time savour every word, every description.
This was truly beautiful. The kind of book I wish I had written…

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