The continent was limited and finite. Extending beyond into the North Atlantic, as if by an afterthought or the remnant of a retreat, there was a solitary stone islet. Barely a hundred yards in diameter, it looked at first glance to be a barren place, though it was a nesting ground for seabirds and was visited by seals at times. Its forbidding circumference of black boulders had been hard pounded by the ocean for countless millennia, though above high-water mark, a shallow turf rose to a prometory upon which stood a lighthouse.
Opening paragraph from Michael D. O’Brien’s, The Lighthouse.
Michael O’Brien has easily been my favorite novelist since I first read Father Elijah back in 1998. I’m looking forward to enjoying this 2020 release that somehow I have missed up until now.
What are you reading?