A few weeks ago we decided to read a Whodunnit for June. In a short, intense bit of voting, all y'all picked the Umberto Eco classic, The Name of the Rose. It may not be a traditional mystery, nor quite fit the profile of light, summer reading, but then, this is the reading group that tackled Kafka on the Shore and that most enigmatic of post modern tomes, Right Ho, Jeeves. In other words, I'm sure we're up for it.
If life is a series of infinite possibilities, what does it mean to be alive?