A decent book transports us; an excellent one, transforms. A great book doesn’t stop at whisking us away to another world; it breathes new life into our own, carefully unfolding a page at a time some new portion of our being.
And if you are a woman with the tender knowledge that the book you’ve just finished is beloved by a fine man whom you’ve never met, it is with some new level of delight that you rearrange your special bookcase, the shelves which treasure your most intimate heart, and carefully, lovingly slide this new novel to serenely stand amongst friends.
It is exceedingly, abundantly rare for me to say that I look forward to the day when I can reread a book. Homer, Cervantes, Sayers, Spenser, MacDonald, and Charlotte Mason are among the only authors who touched me deeply enough to award them the high prize of that honored shelf. This evening I turned the last page on another. Amor Towles wrote a masterpiece when he penned A Gentleman in Moscow. I am humbled by it.
And I am already feeling the loss, a bit, of a world where the Count abides and the willowy woman awaits.
There are never enough words to describe the sweet details of romance, the passage of time or a life of devotion; there is not enough art in the world to explain the absence of it.
the hug and the rapid unclothing, the suspended breath before the first greeting
of lips, his kiss on the tear I shed after the waterfall released,
the smell of cologne lingering, then, saying adieu to him because
I can’t possibly fall in love with this, a man who isn’t a writer;
you understand, I know you understand.
Dear Sir,
I understand now why you held this book tight to your chest. Tonight dear man, whom I have never spoken to, I did the same.
Thank you for recommending it.
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