This strangest of islands, I thought, as I looked out to the sea, this island that turned in on itself, and from which water had been banished. The shore was a carapace, permeable only at certain selected points. Where in this riverine city could one fully sense a riverbank? Everything was built up, in concrete and stone, and the millions who lived on the tiny interior had scant sense about what flowed around them. The water was a kind of embarrassing secret, the unloved daughter, neglected, while the parks were doted on, fussed over, overused. I stood on the promenade and looked out across the water into the unresponsive night.
— from Open City, by Teju Cole.
I am liking this book well enough, but not loving it the way I expected it to.
I am missing the feeling of being wholly captivated by the book I'm reading. Where are you, the-perfect-book-for-me-right-now?