The rarest of things: a perfect book.
Ann Patchett’s “Whistler” opens with Daphne, a woman in her 50s visiting the Met when her husband notices they are being followed. By a man she hasn’t seen since childhood: her first stepfather, Eddie Triplett. That’s all in the first few pages. From there, the two reconnect and piece together the time they spent together, why they eventually parted ways, and what it all meant. It’s not that kind of book where I can’t say more without spoiling it, because the plot doesn’t exactly hinge on twists or surprises. It’s just that the journey is the point here, not the destination.
Patchett makes you feel like you know every character, no matter how minor, and have empathy for all of them.
But mostly this book is just so, so beautifully written. So thought provoking. My mother read it around the same time I did and said she wanted to start it over the moment she finished. I completely understand that impulse.
Wow. What a stunner. If it were up to me I’d make this assigned summer reading for all the readers in my life.
