The Booker Prize 2025, Longlist

Hello Gentle Reader,

This years Booker Prize already found it off to a questionable start, when the judging panel was announced, and amongst them was the actress Sarah Jessica Parker. While its not unheard of for actors sometimes be included in the judging panel – Dan Stevens was part of the judging pane back in 2012 – but critics maintained the actors in question have a strong relation or background in literature studies as in the case of Dan Stevens. Sarah Jessica Parker, raised eyebrows because it appeared she was bringing more ‘glamour,’ or ‘star power,’ to the prize, rather what some may have considered serious qualifications. To be frank: anyone can read and provide an assessment of a novel, but for the sake of qualification, does this inevitably mean the individual in question (celebrity or otherwise) have the qualifications to provide critical analysis in order to advocate for, and adjudicate the award? If yes, then why not have a member of the reading public audition or interview to be a judge? Taking celebrity criticism out of the picture, the judges can be commended for assembling what can be described as some fairly decent novels, as over the years the Booker Prize has found the quality of their lists significantly lacking. Without further delay the following is this year’s longlist:

Jonathan Buckley – “One Boat,”
Kiran Desai – “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny,”
Andrew Miller – “The Land of Winter,”
Natasha Brown – “Universality,”
David Szalay – “Flesh,”
Maria Reva – “Endling,”
Ben Markovits – “The Rest of Our Lives,”
Katie Kitamura – “Audition,”
Susan Choi – “Flashlight,”
Benjamin Wood – “Seascraper,”
Ledia Xhoga – “Misinterpretation,”
Claire Adam – “Love Forms,”
Tash Aw – “The South,”

While I do not share the judge’s admission and appraisal that they have assembled the most globalist-oriented longlist, they have certainly made an effort and there are a few unique titles to spotlight as worthy contenders for the prize. There are also noticeable exclusions, such as Alan Hullinghorst with this new novel “Our Evenings,” or “Gliff,” by Ali Smith or “Theft,” by Abdulrazak Gurnah or “Time of the Child,” by Niall Williams or “What We Can Know,” by Ian McEwan. Perhaps they would have been included on the longlist if certain reforms were not introduced.

I am happy to see Jonathan Buckley (finally) get a nod by the Booker Prize, as Buckley is certainly one of the more innovative writers currently writing in English. “Tell,” Buckley’s previous novel, is told from the perspective of a set of recorded interviews with an eccentric businessman and art collectors’ gardener. The novel examined the nature of how we define our own lives and those of others by creating narratives and stories. “One Boat,” appears to be a more conventional novel, recounting the story of Teresa, who lost recently looses her father, returns to the small Greek town on the coast, where previously she came after her mother died. It’s described as an intensely psychological novel, and knowing Buckley the conventional elements will be flexed and bent by his literary mastery.

Kirian Desai returns for the Booker Prize with her long-anticipated novel “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny,” which took 19 years to write. The novel is an epic love story and family drama novel, crossing continents and countries, as it traces the intertwined fates of two people navigating the complexities of family expectations, matters of the heart, the weight of history, and the alienation of the modern world. Kirian Desai previously won the then Man Booker Prize for her novel “The Inheritance of Loss,” in 2006. “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny,” is an unapologetic epic novel and is the largest novel on this year’s longlist.

Andrew Miller returns to the Booker Prize with his novel, “The Land of Winter,” after previously being shortlisted for the prize in 2001 with his novel, “Oxygen.” While at the time “Oxygen,” received mixed reviews from critics, “The Land of Winter,” has been generously praised, and in what can be now be considered strong Miller fashion, “The Land of Winter,” is another novel of tender, graceful and eloquent exploration of the human heart, tracing the trajectory of two marriages in a post-war Britian, during an exceptionally brutal winter, the Big Freeze of 1962-63. Critics praise Andrew Miller for being an excellent cartographer of the minutiae of regular life, his novels are propelled by the intensity of their character driven narratives, and “The Land of Winter,” retreads this ground, but is a masterclass in historical detailing and psychological portraiture, capturing people and a society coming out of the shadow of war and rationing austerity; in addition to the frailty of people, but also their tenacity to persevere. What can easily be dismissed as bleak or relentlessly depressing, is sustained by Miller’s ability to sketch out hope without melodrama.

Tash Aw also finds himself returning to the Booker Prize with his new novel “The South,” after having been previously been longlisted in 2005 and 2013. The beginning of what is reported to be a planned quartet, “The South,” is framed as a coming-of-age narrative of a young named Jay, who with his family moves to the countryside that his grandfather has left them. It’s a dystopian landscape of diseased and dying vegetation. Regardless, Jay is sent out to work the fields in whatever way that is left, which is how he meets the farm manager son, Chuan. What follows is an intense relationship between the two boys, which plays out against a family day which finds itself increasingly infiltrated by an increasingly globalised world. “The South,” carries the hallmarks of a burgeoning epic slowly unfolding, as its set to drift with Jay and his family through the coming years and decades to come, no different then Naguib Mahfouz’s “Cairo Trilogy,” as it recounts a period of extraordinary social and political change from the experience of a family living through it. Whether or not this will help or hinder Tash Aw and the Booker Prize, is still unknown.  

This years Booker Prize is perhaps a significant improvement from last year. Perhaps not perfect, but a start. It doesn’t carry the stench of being organized with any political motivation or didactic principles introduced; though I still wouldn’t go so far as to call it globally encompassing, they’ve listed some unique talent nonetheless.

 

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

– XLII –

Life is an endurance test: jobs, other people, and of course, yourself.

What the Bee Knows

Hello Gentle Reader,

“Parabola: The Search for Meaning,” often shortened to “Parabola,” was one of those wonderfully curated publications. A quarterly publication which explored the nature and history of mythology, folklore, and their ancient and continued attempts to define and delineate some meaning to existence, the world, and the undefinable concept of the human condition; but also, their continued inspiration and parabolic employment in literature and beyond. It was lovingly published by the not-for-profit organization, The Society for the Study of Myth and Tradition. Contributors included renowned writers and poets such as: Robert Bly, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Pablo Neruda, Ursula Le Guin, and Italo Calvino; in addition to academics with expertise in the Jungian discipline of psychology, ecology, folklore, philosophy and a myriad of other subjects. “Parabola,” however, didn’t draw them in for their literary talents or their scholarly integrity and academic acuity; but rather they were framed within the perspective of ‘The Seeker,’ continually traveling, wondering, and pondering in awe and curiosity of the human condition, and the need and capacity to create myths, stories, and narratives in order to explain, frame, and order not only their existence, but understand it in relation to the greater world and by extension the universe. A unique feature of each issue of “Parabola,” was how each issue sought to concentrate and ruminate on a particular subject. For example, the first issues defining theme in 1976 was “The Hero,” subsequent subjects and themes covered were, “Magic,” “Rites of Passage,” “Inner Alchemy,” “Mask and Metaphor,” “Holy War,” “Guilt,” “Words of Power,” “The Knight and The Hermit,” “Liberation & Letting Go,” among a plethora of a back catalogue full of eccentric subjects. The publication’s themes were eclectic, expansive, and inspiring, in addition to being multifractional, whereby they could be examined and re-examined from a myriad of perspectives and angles. Unfortunately, “Parabola: The Search for Meaning,” became yet another casualty to a changing publishing industry as it clangs through time, and its final issue was published in April of 2025. The final theme was “The Mystery of Time.” An early and frequent contributor to the magazine was the writer, P.L. Travers, who is fondly remembered and beloved for being the creator and writer of the famous “Mary Poppins,” series of novels.

As a writer, P.L. Travers maintained a distant relationship to the idea of children’s literature, going so far to refuse and refute all attempts to classify, categorize, or characterise her work as that of a children’s writer. Travers went so far as to publish an essay in The New York Times titled: “I NEVER WROTE FOR CHILDREN,” (in all capitals for added effect). In the essay, Travers hovers over the subject of children’s literature, but rather than land a punch or mount a reasonable defense of why she is not a children’s writer, she instead skirts the issue as much as possible, and in doing so adds further fog and uncertainty to the already amorphous identity that children’s literature encompasses. P.L. Travers is less interested in assembling a case to fend off and is far more interested in conjuring an exasperated sense of mystique. Whereby, logically, if the subject cannot be defined, how can she be charged with dabbling in it? When Travers decides to rapier into the realm of polemics, she’s pointed in her flèches, accusing publishers and booksellers of being the real culprits for the need to delineate literature between the realms of adulthood and children; expressing further exasperation when books are placed into age groups:

“[. . .] I see books labeled for “From 5 to 7” or “From 9 to 12,” because who is to know what child will be moved by what book and at what age? Who is to be the judge?”

While Travers is thankful that some children have indeed found her books and were kind enough to read them, she maintains she never wrote with them as the intended target audience. A point further illustrated when P.L. Travers invokes other children’s writers from Beatrix Potter to Lewis Carol and Maurice Sendak. In particular, Travers summons forth Beatrix Potter’s own defense and annoyance at being defined and equally dismissed as a children’s writer: “I write to please myself!” P.L. Travers remains, however, not necessarily offended in the continued review and appraisal of her work as a writer of children’s literature, but rather how demeaning this is not only to her as a writer, but also to children or adults who decide to enjoy the work, and engage with the sense and spirit of being ‘childlike.’ Regardless, P.L. Travers maintains the position she is not a writer concerned with the literary habits of children; but instead, a practitioner and devotee to myth and folklore. No different then The Brothers Grimm and the Ancient Greek orators. What saves Travers from entrenching herself into an indignant position is her attitude towards children and their readings. Rather then being disdainful and dismissive of the book’s children read or are interested in reading; Travers instead decries the malpractice of editors, publishers, and booksellers attempts to corral them into predefined notions of age-appropriate material, the aptly aforementioned labels: ‘From 5 to 7,’ or ‘From 9 to 12.’ Travers rather encourages and supports children having the agency and curiosity to explore all books that they want to read and to enjoy them as is. After all, children like all people are interested in stories and if the story is entertaining enough, compelling enough, or thrilling enough, they will happily appropriate it for their own enjoyment, and as far as Travers is concerned no greater compliment can be provided to a writer. Ultimately though, P.L. Travers perceived literature as a dragon’s hoard of treasure, vast and unmanageable, which just so happens to lack any sense of curative objective. What unites it as a whole is an appreciation for language and the ancient act of storytelling.

Throughout her life, P.L. Travers earned the distinction and reputation of being described as a serious and sharp writer, equal to a fire-breathing dragon crowned with curls, who did not suffer fools kindly. She was not the sing-song nanny, defying gravity by sliding up bannisters, utilizing a spoonful of sugar to soften the harshness of reality. No, that tinseled whimsical abomination (by Travers view) was the product of the commercialized imagination of Walt Disney and his film adaption of Travers’ beloved “Mary Poppins.” Speaking of which, it is no secret that P.L. Travers hated what had been done to “Mary Poppin,” with the film adaption, bleaching away the darker elements of the Edwardian nursey and the sharper characteristics of the titular nanny, and replacing them with an over confectioned frivolous showgirl. It comes as no surprise that this would be the first and only film adaption of the series in Travers’ lifetime. It has been resurrected as a musical, which Travers characteristically laid out stipulations for; while a film sequel was released, it is considered an original continuation of its own, not another adaption. It’s difficult to imagine Travers warming up to either of them. The damage was done though, when people hear or think of “Mary Poppins,” in any fashion they imagine a whimsical and charming character, rather than the stern but kind and orderly nanny Travers had created. Regardless, “Mary Poppins,” remains P.L. Travers most famous work and creation. The character, novels, and the film adaption inevitably made her a wealthy woman during her lifetime. Despite this, Travers maintained that her preoccupation as a writer was far more interested in folklore and mythology, which predated the publication and popularity of “Mary Poppins.” This is further supported by the fact that during the Second World War, and in the employment by the now defunct U.K. Ministry of Information, Travers lived for five years in the United States, and for a period of two summers lived amongst the Navajo, Hopi, and Pueblo peoples, taking an interest in their myths and folkloric traditions. In interviews and articles, P.L. Travers presented herself as more folklorist and scholar of myth, which is what ultimately led me to hunt down her collected essays and reflections on myth, symbol and story: “What the Bee Knows,” which is compiled of essays, articles, and interviews she contributed to “Parabola.”

First and foremost, P.L. Travers is no rhetorician or polemicist. The essays of “What the Bee Knows,” are not distant clinician observations or scholarly studies. They are not the musings of an anthropologist’s investigation gradually piecing together a portrait of a society and culture. Nor are they a detailed report outlining the autopsied ins and outs of the fairy stories and myths after scrutinizing examination. No, quite the opposite in fact. They’re strange and bewildering musings. Where other writers and essayists keep a healthy distance between themselves and their subject; Travers, however, openly acquainted herself with them, becoming drenched and overcome; until ultimately, she is anointed a disciple. The essays unapologetically wade into the esoteric. Often, P.L. Travers’ literary voice became more concerned with evocation and enchanting in orientation; loose and easily overtaken by oneiric interpretations or freefalling into some unconscious and interior fantastical realm or other imaginings or day dreams. The expectation of a severe, pithy, and acerbic no-nonsense writer, were quickly thwarted, when greeted by what could only be described as some performative act, where P.L. Travers conceals herself in the persona of some Madam Zelda figure at a séance table, complete with crystal ball, incense burners and overstuffed cushions. Throughout her life, Travers viewed herself on a quasi psych-spiritual journey, often under the tutelage of individuals and gurus such as A.E. (George William Russell) to George Gurdjieff, among others. Rather than review and analyse her pursuit of abstruse fulfillment, Travers instead indulges into a variety of thematic concerns as if they were writing prompts, revealing some critical thought or literary admissions, in addition to autobiographical details, and more ethereal ruminations of the subject at hand. It’s a mixed bag, and often delighted in being more hermetic than enlightening. By the time I read through the first batch of essays and reached the interview titled: “Where Will All the Stories Go?” It became apparent that the conversation between Travers and Laurens van der Post was exclusively between them, and had no room for an interloper like myself. Truth be told, it’s barely tolerable to read someone engaged in a sermon of the mystical; it is completely indigestible when two individuals hoard the handcar and pump it into the depths of the mines of mysticism, extolling all the minerals, gems, and subterranean surprises, while your stranded at the entrance of the alleged cave of wonders. 

“What the Bee Knows,” provides a different facet to P.L. Travers bibliography, one which is always overshadowed by the indomitable figure of “Mary Poppins.” While I had hoped it showed the serious and scholarly talents of Travers, the supposed literary analysis she often insinuated about in her interviews, but instead was met by a writer who seemed far more interested in being swept up in the tempests of the primordial storms of mythmaking, symbol, and story. While they were often interesting at times, one too many veered towards the musings from a psychedelic trip, not necessarily engaging and lacking a concrete structure in which readers can properly orient themselves to the topic at hand. There is no doubt P.L. Travers was sharp and incisive, her interview with The Paris Review presents her as such. While her essay with The New York Times presented her ability to both dismiss the notion of children’s literature from the perspective of a writer who had often been designated one; but rather then offend and dismiss children as readers, Travers in turn defended their own right to explore and read the books they come across, to search out and enjoy the stories that compelled them, regardless if it was deemed age appropriate or other wise. Yet, “What the Bee Knows,” never quite lands with any impact. In abandoning itself to the ethereal otherworldly calls of fairy or the unconscious wellspring, the lack of tether is a disservice, whereby Travers authorial perspective is overwhelmed by the subject matter and is then swept out to some strange sea. “What the Bee Knows,” could have benefited from a concrete clinical perspective, or dialed back the sermons of esoteric occultism and enchantment, the devotional defenses of a fevered disciple, and instead sought a more grounded way to explore an otherwise interesting and compelling subject, that of myth, symbol, and story.

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

 

For Further Reading

 

P.L. Travers, The New York Times: "I NEVER WROTE FOR CHILDREN,"

 

We Do Not Part

Hello Gentle Reader,

Pathos is the nucleus of Han Kang’s literary oeuvre. Han’s preoccupation to explore the intensity of the human conditions emotional landscape, retains a particular interest towards mankind’s proclivity to perpetrate and engage in violence. Violence of course comes in a variety of forms, be it: physical, political, psychological, emotional, or spiritual. Han cartographs the trajectory of violence and its subsequent fallout and consequences with a pathologist’s dedication to understand; while always stopping short of entertaining any notion of diagnosis. Violence, as far as Han Kang can summarize is not an activity or action strictly unique to human beings. It is a forceful consequence of life itself. An otherwise existential and natural fact. Practically primordial. While human beings though remain unique in their ability to enterprise and invent new modes, methods, and means in which to perpetrate, retaliate, and engage in acts turned arts of violence. As far as society and people are concerned, violence is mere natural consequence and tool encompassing change. For example, the guillotine remains one of the most striking images of violence inspiring terror to provoke political and social change and subdue opposition to its progressive purposes and ideals. The guillotine, with its brutal function, was defended for its perceived ethos and humanistic approach. Its engineering ensured the condemned were executed with mechanical precision, minimizing the follies and mistakes of manual executions; while denying executioners their petty pleasures. As such, the guillotine was deemed the most humane form of execution for its swiftness and indifference. A tug of the rope, the drop of the blade, and the deed is done. No different then hanging, public burning, or any other form of decapitation, the guillotine was also a crowd pleaser. A public spectacle where people crowded to coo, jeer, and awe at, delighting in the bloodied spectacle. As for someone like Robespierre, who had their initial hesitations towards employing violence in order to ultimately achieve the French Revolutions goals for rationale rule and enlightened governance, before embracing it as the means in which to further purify the revolutions ideals by deposing tyranny. In turn, the despotism Robespierre curated around him, and his liberal embrace of political violence alienated his former allies and would-be supporters, until at last Robespierre found himself beneath the metallic glare of the guillotine.

Designating pathos as the stellar core of one’s literary preoccupations is riddled with challenges and pitfalls. Especially for Han Kang’s unapologetic surveying of violence as an inherent natural and existential factor of the human condition. Poor writing, terrible execution, and no sense of planning, means the work is always teetering on the precipice of melodramatic hysteria, sensationalism, hyperbole, and such mawkish second-hand emotion, that any actual weight and discussion of these elements are lost within the white noise of a writer who has no control or appreciation of their subject matter, and therefore has no business or talent writing about the subject. Writers who perilously dive into the cavernous landscape of emotional spelunking, are often lost within their subject, which overpowers their work with solicitous sentiment. There is nothing as frivolous as a writer whose work panders for affecting responses from their reader. Its feeble as it is cheap, with no literary quality or hope of redemption. Thankfully for Han Kang, her use of language is what steers her novels from becoming moored and mired within the swamp and ruin of such frivolity. Han’s literary language relies on brittle lyricism to make its case, avoiding smouldering on shock value sensationalism, or lingering to long wallowing into caricature of melodrama. In “Human Acts,” Han wrote about the inherent violence of the Gwangju Uprsing with a frankness towards the real human cost; while ensuring she can sketch out the sinew to other episodes and perspectives ensuring the narrative was capable of moving forward, without chewing on the macabre and grotesque details. In an opening chapter, the boy recounts the makeshift morgue being used to house the bodies of the dead. The bodies washed. Their details and identities recorded. Han reticently observes these moments with their resolve and resilience, not in the death of the participants, but the care, order, and administrative efficiency taking place in managing the deceased. In one scene though, to offer a glimpse or understanding of the events which had previously taken place and a foreshadowing to the events that will take place; Han describes one body whose neck has been sliced open by bayonet. The red of the wound and the uvula dangling at the back of the throat. The image speaks for itself. Han does not insulate further with brutalist imagery or extrapolate beyond; the scene stands alone. The same tactics are employed in, “The White Book,” a deeply personal and autobiographical novel, whereby Han recounts the tragic circumstances of her older sister’s birth and death, juxtaposing it against a writer who’s on a retreat in Warsaw, Poland, who reflects on the city’s decimation and destruction during the Second World War and the process of it being rebuilt. Woven throughout the narrative is an inventory of white objects and poetic philosophising on the colour white, the nature of grief, loss, and the fragility of the human condition. The sparsity of the work, the ellipses and its elliptical nature ensure it’s a short fragmentary meditation, provides enough space for the work to breathe in its poetic intensity, without becoming indulgent in solipsism.

Han Kang’s skill in utilizing figurative language effectively, restraint, and literary maturity to understand and veer towards subtlety, when writing about subjects which are inherently flavoured with a heightened degree and level of poignancy, and detail historical acts of brutality and violence, it is safe to assume that her most recent novel to be translated, “We Do Not Part,” would once against showcase Han’s curated control of her brittle lyricism and dedication to probing the enduring question of violence and its relationship to the human condition, by recounting a brutal atrocity that had taken place within contemporary Korean history. Instead, “We Do Not Part,” didn’t quite land its punches or find its footing. “Human Acts,” was a symphonic novel. Structured around the political uprising and subsequent crack down and slaughter in the city of Gwangju, the novel spiraled outwards, showcasing how the events that took place within that city continue to reverberate, and how those consequential effects persist with the families of victims, and are felt within the society at large, and remembered within a societal and collective consciousness. This gave, “Human Acts,” a concrete structure, a scaffolding if you will, in which the novel continued to build off and gain momentum. The second chapter of the boy’s soul’s desperation to get home to say goodbye to his mother before the sun rises, remains an exhilarating piece, showcasing Han’s talents to propel a narrative with a sense of emotional urgency, while remaining coldly distant, to ensuring the impacts landed organically rather than manufacturing the required responses. In “We Do Not Part,” the prose became overladen with cumbersome repetition, and lacked the necessary focal point in which to take off. Instead, Han’s fragile lyricism became lost within the white noise of its own production. Or if more preferable, lost within increasingly tiresome descriptions of snow and wind. Throughout the beginning of the novel and continued well after, the prose and sentences became increasingly episodic, simply describing “then this happened, then this happened, then this happened, then this happened,” as if Han found it difficult to find the natural rhythm or flow to propel the narrative and instead described minute actions and responses as they happened in a manner of a play by play.

In addition, “We Do Not Part,” lacks the concrete structure of “Human Acts,” where the symphony bloomed; instead, “We Do Not Part,” is more ephemeral, lacking the gravity to anchor it. Instead, the novel is characterized as more of a singular flame within a non-descript room, whose light exists only to showcase the dancing flickering mercurial shadows shifting, twisting, and changing on the wall and ceiling, as they always remain imperceptible and constantly in motion. This is perhaps the biggest downfall of “We Do Not Part,” as the novels prose became increasingly circuitous. Crossing and crisscrossing the same ordeals. Treading and retreading the same territory. Kyungha’s snow ridden odyssey through Jeju Island to get to Inseon’s remote village and home, should at once be filled with tension and urgency to save the bird; instead, it becomes lugubrious and laborious. Leaving many readers to wonder: what’s the point? Then there is the premise of the novel. “We Do Not Part,” draws out getting to the discussion of the massacre that took place on Jeju Island, and when it finally reaches this pinnacle, Han appears to cram all her research and testimony into the island’s tragic history and unresolved grief into the last three quarters of the novel. It also became increasingly apparent, that Han only started to find her footing as the novel began to conclude. Her lyricism became sharper, clearer, and far more engaging. Kyungha’s moaning and wallowing ceased, beyond a few non-descript comments about the cold and chill; but in the delirium of the later components of the novel, Kyungha thankfully became less perceptible, without commenting on her ailments, or projecting a sense of longing companionship on an elderly passerby.

“We Do Not Part,” is Han Kang’s longest novel (which is currently translated). In previous novels, such as “Greek Lessons,” Han showcased herself as a master of the slow burn, gradually delving into the psychological interior of her characters, her prose penetrating and image rich, provide enough bait and tackle to string readers along. The same can be said of the “The White Book,” whereby the personal—even private—nature of the work is tolerated because Han is sparing. The waxing prose of Han’s book allows it to ruminate and contemplate the nature of loss, grief, and their relation to love, and in turn the kernel of guilt that is felt with the understanding that her life is only made possible because of the death of her older sister. Once again though, Han’s prose is psychologically acute without being self-indulgent. Its evocation comes through a layering of images and an association of images, and the metaphors produced from there. “We Do Not Part,” lacks this in its first half to three quarters. The novel would have benefited from being moulded and shaped more; pruned and sharpened with greater scrutiny. Instead, the rambling meandering roundabout journey became vacuous and vapid. “We Do Not Part,” could have employed a more concrete structure, instead of relying on snow which is unreliable, as it drifts, blows, and accumulates, and sadly the novel got lost within the ether of it, becoming colourless and anesthesia inducing. “We Do Not Part,” is disappointing, and rightfully so, because Han Kang can do better and has proven as much; furthermore, the assertion to call “We Do Not Part,” Han’s masterpiece, is misguided as it is disagreeable.

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary