"perhaps there is some secret homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. how delightful if that were true."
(image from starving writers books)
i've read this book before. but it deserved a round two.
this is more than liking. i have more than a crush on this book. this, my friends, is true love.
this is the kind of book that devours me rather than the other way around. the kind of book that makes real life disappear for a few hours at a time, and even when you have to put your feet back on the ground, everything looks a little bit different. a little more hopeful. a little more romantic. a little more reckless and yours for the taking.
i'll let a few of its own words tell you why...
"it seems to me the less he said, the more beauty he made."
"pigs were bright enough to know betrayal when they met it."
"he talks to himself, which i find entirely endearing since i do, too."
"a man in a patched jumper is painting the door to his house sky blue ... perhaps there is an end to war."
"yes, she did -- slapped her right across the face. it was lovely."
"the lines around his eyes make him seem to be starting a smile even when he's not."
"i'm scared i'll miss something if i stay inside ... writers ought to live far inland or next to the city dump, if they are ever to get any work done."
"she was a noticer ... they're just bits that were lying on the ground, that anyone else would step over or on, but she saw they were beautiful and brought them home."
"[he] says the least, but he takes me to see wonders -- like the tiny church. then he stands back and lets me enjoy them as long as i want. he's the most un-hurrying person i've ever met."
"i am losing my grip on grammar."
"[his] barn is exceedingly clean. he also stacks his hay beautifully. i believe i am becoming pathetic."
"think of it! we could have gone on longing for one another and pretending not to notice forever. this obsession with dignity can ruin your life if you let it."