I just read Roddy Doyle's piece, Sleep, in the New Yorker. It has a fantastic voice and reminds me a little of an Irish Kissing in Manhattan. I am impressed with how he treats the language, the nuance of the letter 'g'. I love the spacing of their sleep patterns, their social class, and how they fit perfectly together for decades, raise a family, find beauty in the dirt in the fog. It was a good story and in its last paragraph it became great to me. Something about it sends shivers across my back (in a good way).
He jumps across time to explain their relationship but he doesn't lose us in the leap. As I write, I am thinking about it, still processing, and I realize because of how he treats time, we reach the chronological end of the story before the final page. It's refreshing to read a great story. I am trying to read more and tonight I forced myself to stay up later than usual. I have been rewarded.