Amy's book review service...

Most everyone I’m friends with will admit that at some point in their lives, a book they’ve read has made them cry.

This is a good thing. It’s a sign of empathy.

Some quotes:“The only thing that’s wrong with me is what’s missing. Owen Meany is what’s missing.”

“The honor guard, in white spats and white gloves, strode down the aisle in bridal cadence and smartly split to each side of the flag-draped casket, where Owen’s medal—pinned to the flag—brightly reflected the beam of sunlight that shone through the hole that the baseball had made in the stained-glass window of the chancel. In the routine gloom of the old stonechurch, this unfamiliar beam of light appeared to be drawn to the bright gold of Owen’s medal—as if the light itself had burned a hole in the dark stained glass; as if the light had been searching for Owen Meany.”

(from John Irving’s A Prayer For Owen Meany)

Read a six-hundred page novel even though you know, from the beginning, that the title character is going to die; the book is a reminiscence of soul touched by a kind of otherworldly grace that he does not wholly understand.

I cry at books. I cry at movies. It’s just part of who I am. Words, especially, can touch me—it’s the gift of being able to see into another person’s mind.

I’m currently in the middle of fixing geek-chick after the move. More tomorrow.

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