I’ve just turned the last pages of Christopher Paul Curtis’s Elijah of Buxton, which:
- has confirmed that my knowledge of Canadian history is “horrorific”;
- has (almost) made me want to retire my keyboard, because I could never write anything this good; and,
- has dramatically increased my affection for donkeys, slingshots, and haints.
I nabbed it from the library, but I’m going to have to get a copy for my own personal bookshelf.