Sunk

A few lines from the book I just started reading:

"Also, if you stay in it for any length of time, like anyplace else, a cafe becomes a world."

"However, it is definitely on the list of perfect things. You know what I mean, the list that includes the starry sky over the desert, grilled cheese sandwiches, The Great Gatsby, the Chrysler Building, Ella Fitgerald singing "It Don’t Mean a Thing (If You Ain’t Got That Swing)," white peonies, and those little sketches of hands by Leonardo DaVinci." (In reference to The Philadelphia Story.)

"If a girl could sling a poem over her swimwear as though it were an old T-shirt, what else might be possible?"

"I’ve always been more than a little proud of myself for having been fourteen and deeply benighted about almost everything, but having had the sense to recognize what is surely a universal truth: Jimmy Stewart is always and indisputably the best man in the world, unless Cary Grant should happen to show up."

"Spruce Street: cars and lights; the synagogue on the corner; the hustlers in front of it, male and heartbreakingly young. I felt the two tugs I always felt when I looked at those boys: the tug toward wanting the cars to stop, the tug toward wanting them not to stop."

"Then, I gave him a look so worthy of Veronica Lake, I could almost feel my nonexistent blond tresses falling over one eye."

All from the first chapter. And I so wanted a graceful, fun book to read now.

Okay, so, unless this book starts to suck in a profound way — which the blurb from Ms. Karen Joy Fowler pretty much guarantees won’t happen — I am very, very happy to be reading it. Should gratuitous Claudette Colbert namedropping be on the way, or perhaps a stray reference to Midnight, I’ll love it. The book?

Love Walked in by Marisa de los Santos, which just came out. You can read an excerpt at that link.