I have a habit of reading two or three books at a time. A novel has to be intense and super special for me to commit to it in a monogamous fashion. Peter Carey's Bliss had the sage smoke.
It's been a while since a plot made me ache in that salt-clean way. Bitter realism, honey-sweetened madness and bliss that curtails the fracturing in Katherine Mansfield's genuine, re birthing of the term. Just bee-utiful.