delightfully, literarily sick.

Yesterday, somewhere in the middle of the Nevada desert, I finished Death Comes for the Archbishop.

The title gives away the end, if you’re wondering. But everything before is great.

I’ve said this before about several other books (A Study in Scarlet, Doctor Zhivago, the Divergent trilogy), but DCftA gave me a delightful sick feeling that only comes with really, really good books.

The story is that of Father Jean Marie Latour, who goes as a Catholic missionary to the Great Lakes territory in the 1830s and 1840s, and is later sent out to the new territory of New Mexico, where he deals with Mexicans and American Indians and tries not to step on toes, except where necessary.

And then he dies.

Shut up about spoilers, it’s not like you didn’t see it coming.

Anyway, it’s a good book, and I read it, felt the appropriate sick, looked out the window at the Nevada desert, put it away and started in with Christa Wolf’s Der geteilte Himmel, which is a pretty incredible experience.

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