“Whistler” by Ann Patchett

I loved this book, really really loved it. And yet I finished it two weeks ago and still haven’t blogged about it. Why do I do this??

The short answer is, I can’t to it justice. I can’t say anything about it. It’s just too perfect. 

I am definitely a fan of Ann Patchett's writing, and have been ever since I read Run (more than sixteen years ago!), although interestingly I did not mark that one as a Must Read. In the past I have tended to prefer Patchett's nonfiction over her fiction. (Although Commonwealth was right up there . . . and also Tom Lake was super good . . . ) Now I think I may have changed my mind. I guess it's possible that I'm affected by recency bias, but I think Whistler might be my favorite of all Ann Patchett's books, and I think I know why. Somehow it manages to seem just like her non-fiction, except that it's not. Like, it seems like it must be autobiographical, but it's not. I think it's because the people and the plot are made up, but the feelings are real. 

The main character in this book is Daphne Fuller, happily married New Yorker who is about my age but whose husband is closer to my parents' age. One day the couple makes a serendipitous stop at The Met (art gallery, not opera house) where they run into Daphne's stepfather, who was much beloved during the year or so that he was a part of her childhood, but who she hasn't seen for decades. It's a beautiful story about the love in friendship (and, as you'll see in reviews everywhere online, "Don't worry, it's not about a horse." Although there is a brief story told about the very horse pictured on the cover.)

There is only one thing wrong with this book. Again with the shiny shiny cover! Maybe it will age well? And I guess it matches a lot of Patchett's other hardbacks. But to me there is something so luxurious about those matte covers, and something so . . . opposite-of-luxurious about this shiny one.