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This promises to make for an interesting read.

Eastward, southward, there are no more gardens. Every scrap of land has a building on it. Light shears between blackened towers in the east, scraping against the rain-washed sky. The towers are packed with rushing bodies, checking their pockets for pens, keys, looking for umbrellas, overalls, tool-kits. Parents scream and children wail; a young mother smiles as she hugs her baby, trying to get him to take the breast, but her milk hasn’t come, and he’s yellow with jaundice. It doesn’t matter; she has her baby, the single glorious irreplaceable thing, and the sun is shining, the sun is shining.
The first day for weeks without constant rain.[1]

I just read the prologue; the poor-rich dichotomy is perhaps laid on a bit thick, but that might tone down. It certainly has a nice set-up. It’s almost a bit unheimisch. Anyway, we’ll see if this book will meet expectations.


[1] Maggie Gee, The Flood (London, 2004), 16.