With some books, you run out of words to say before you even open your mouth. You want to hold them, hug them and keep all of the story to yourself. But when you do start talking, you can’t stop. The words flow out and everything is different. You are different.
I didn’t want to read this book at first. It seemed cold and fragile, and my icy fingers needed some warm pages to turn. “If only I was a few years younger when this book came out, I would have loved it.” I said. After all, with some books, your soul requires a certain kind of emptiness to be filled. And the book fits.
I was right (and when it comes to books, I hate to be right.) I had already passed the time of my life when this book would have been relevant. The words were simple and the story was fragile. I finished it within the span of two days, reading mostly under the dark cover of night.
The book didn’t move me the way I would have liked it to, but I can’t say it was bad. It was a beautifully told story that didn’t strike my heart. That could be a good thing. At least my eyes didn’t open a waterfall.
But I don’t like being left untouched.