The story begins with the decision in 1972 to add two seconds to a leap year in order to balance clock time with the movement of the earth. It’s the difference between something happening and something not happening. But that thinking is so flawed and does so much damage to our souls. We want to be neater, slimmer, stronger, faster, more efficient, less forgetful…fill in the blanks for yourself. In all of us, to some degree, is the striving for perfection…that unattainable ideal conjured in our own minds or suggested by the lies of standards set by advertising or the media. That single word kept echoing through my mind as I turned pages and even long after I’d put the book down. The title of the book is….er, well, perfect. Joyce’s books are thoughtful and gentle but can evoke deep feelings and produce an examination of one’s own life, loves, and shortcomings. And there is no need to read Harold Fry first. It’s sort of sad yet satisfying at the same time. Readers who liked The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry will not be disappointed by this one, although it is very different.
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