There is an elusive quality in beautiful writing, (such a paltry word to describe it and a limitation in itself, yet it does give some notion of what I mean), that ineluctably draws the eyes to savor it once again, that pauses the reader to dwell in the sheer vastness of what has been said and not said, that insinuates itself into the recesses of the mind to remain, indelible. Man Booker Prize winners, more often than not boast of such writing I speak of above, and tend to touch on complex themes: the human condition and the rest of the ilk. It is with a twinge of jealousy as I delight in the mastery of these word weavers, prize-winning or no, who transport me into their realm, in which everything is more tangible because it did not happen, but might have.