Reading myself in a novel of remarkable intensity

As I may have said a hundred times, I’m a great believer in Proust’s dictum than when we read we read ourselves. Without a reader a novel does not exist, and when we read we, like the author, engage in a creative act, although not nearly as intense, arduous, or prolonged as that of the author. We bring ourselves to the novel, create a unique work, and take away from the novel something that belongs only to us. I found all this to be particularly true in The Infatuations by Javier Marias: lines hit me as if they had been written for me. I should make clear that I have never planned or committed a murder as a murder and how and why it was undertaken are at the heart of the novel. The plot is an important part of the novel (which it isn’t in some novels), and I’m going to summarise the plot—so stop reading now if you are going to read the novel, which I would urge you to do. At the beginning “a prudent you woman” takes pleasure each morning in watching “a perfect couple” in the café…