Two Books - a review, of sorts

Two books.
A Man Called Ove, and A Gentleman In Moscow.

Both hugely readable, yet so vastly different.
Both made me smile. Both made me pause every now and then, to let the words soak into my heart. Both certainly NOT "unputdownable", for both demand time to relish, to contemplate..
But where Ove drew you to get involved in his story, completely, to be a part of his life's daily routine... Without once making one feel one was a spectator...
Moscow makes one watch not merely the characters, as if one a stage, it makes one aware that one is, perhaps, witnessing a master puppeteer at work. The characters, the story, everything is spellbinding. But, more than all, what captivates is the beauty of the language. The AUTHOR is the hero, here, firmly capturing ones attention with every turn of a well built phrase, on almost every page.
Rarely has a book shone purely for the felicity of language, as this.
I resist, meanwhile, the urge to discover more about Amor Towles. Where Frederik Backman gave us Ove selflessly, Towles makes sure he's done us a favour, and what's more, makes sure that we know it.
A master at work

Lockdown

Stepped out of my complex today, for the first time in 8 days - it felt strange. Almost empty roads (although, even in this post apocalyptic world I did see one two wheeler driving in the wrong direction - mera Bharat mahan)

At 10:45, not too many shops were open. Just one small bakery. Picked up a few essentials from the masked man behind the counter. He didn't have much, in any case.

I ventured further, ahead to the D'Mart store. Even before I reached, I saw a long serpentine queue stretched even longer by the conscious distance between one patient shopper and the next. Discreetly retreated. Nothing too urgent to warrant standing an hour at the minimum.

Returning back to my complex I notice security is less than half strength at the main gate. I am stopped, tentatively, by a stranger, a new guard, to whom I too am a stranger. My beard and generally unkempt look perhaps made me look undesirable, unworthy of being a resident here.

I walk past him breezily, with insouciance - he quietly slinks back. So much for protection...

Back at my building, a hand sanitizer is the only guard I see. No other human in sight.

Leaves fallen from trees gather in the gentle breeze, assembling together for a seminar of the dead. They rustle, they murmur among themselves, and do a sudden quick dance in a mild strengthening breeze.

My lift arrives, doors swish open. The floor looks unnaturally dirty, splashes of water and shoe marks on the tile. Floor 2, should I press the button? A sudden nervousness grips me.
I pause. Consider. The risk of infection weighs a moment on my mind.
"Ah, hell!"
I press. Go up.
Home.
One week down....

How many more?