Feb. 18th, 2008

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I love to read. I'll read almost anything, which is why I came home from the bookstore this week with three books: Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants, a book based on the hit TV series Monk; Jim Butcher's Storm Front, the first in the Dresden Files; and Passage, by Connie Willis, who is one of my very favorite authors.

The Monk book was cute and funny and fluffy, and something that should be an episode.

Storm Front was pretty good. I had already read the second book in the series, Fool Moon, so getting through the exposition ("I'm a wizard! People are blind and ignorant! SHINY MAGICS YAYS!!") was a little rough, but the story moved along nicely, and the characters were enjoyable. Especially since the short-lived TV show had the hot leper doctor from that episode of Monk as Harry Dresden. Mmmm.

Anyway. The point of this post was how awesome the third book was. I picked it up and was instantly consumed by it. I couldn't put it down. People came up and talked to me and I had no idea they were there. My heart raced as I sped through the pages, to the point where I had to stop and take breaks to calm down. I read for about six or seven hours straight, champing at the bit for the ending. And, like Lincoln's Dreams, this book made me cry like crying was going out of style. I haven't cried that hard since I watched Pan's Labyrinth.

Books that amuse you for an afternoon are a dime a dozen. Books that change the way you look at life are so much rarer, and while I don't know that I'll ever be able to read this book again, it can definitely sit on my shelf of honor with pride.

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stoopbeck

May 2009

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