August 23rd, 2008


At the Mercy of Books About Girls Named Jane

Have you ever read a book so good and rich and true that the grief when it was over was unbearable? That you can't live in that place anymore, that it will never be new again, and the sorrows of the book so piercing that you want to drink to their troubles as though they were yours? Because they are yours, or at least they seem so, specifically, personally yours, a flat mirror of your life that shows, in code, everything you've loved and lost?


Why can't books like this be infinite series, when so many terrible ones drag on forever?
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