I began reading Lost Bodies by Francois Gantheret while on a bus to Makati this evening after buying a copy at Powerbooks in Megamall. In the tradition of Albert Camus’s The Stranger, this novel is profound, literary, and profoundly literary, despite its Sidney Sheldon-esque grip (minus the usual cheapness).
I only let go of my copy, rested it beside me with the open part facing my bed, to write this post.
For some time now, he no longer slept. Eyes wide open in the darkness, he lay in wait. It was like this every morning. He had only a very hazy notion of what it meant: mornings for him were spent just keeping watch, waiting, sitting with his back to the wall, his legs folded and his arm around his knees, clenched to his chest so as to allow as little access as possible to the cold which has more acute at that time of the day, his head thrown back, his eyes glued to the lid above him that was still not yet visible.
And these two whose still intact plastic covers I am yet to tear and peel.