I was browsing at an old bookshop. That morning I had breakfast with a woman, who it seemed to me, was a congenital liar. The untruths had left me baffled because there was no need for her to speak them. They had been spoken either for effect or as a natural need to embroider a tale. Lies were top of my mind when I spotted The Patron Saint of Liars. I reached for it. I read the first line and I fell in love.
Ann Patchett is a fine writer whose writing demands total commitment from the reader. Here is a book worth reading and keeping.
So that makes me wonder about the person who sold the book to the old book shop. Bad ! Very very bad!!!