Sometimes I love a book but don't love it for its length and relentless excellence, hammering away at the way I see the world when it would be more fun to read a thriller.
This, like Don Quixote, is one of those books: six hundred and twenty pages of memoir, sociology, history, travel, geography, crime, and punishment; a compendia of quotation, citation, and incrimination.
Hard at times, like a drive across Kansas, or down Metcalf from Johnson Drive all the way south down into the hundreds. But how can I move (back) to a city in Missouri called Kansas City, or Kansa City or Kaw City, and not take the time?
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