In which we want more.
I’ve just read a biography about Laura Ingalls Wilder which was so pointless I can’t be bothered to remember who it was by. Pointless because it told you very, very little you wouldn’t already know if you’ve read “the Little House books”. The author spent 200 pages recapping what Laura herself says more than eloquently enough and then about 40, as a sort of afterthought, about what happened next.
Much more satisfying, then, to go back to reading Laura’s own words in West from Home, which I finished today. It contains letters from Laura to her husband written when she travelled to San Francisco to visit their daughter and see the grand exhibition in 1915, and is delightful reading.