I LOVED IT. I mean it.
There are those stories that contain humour & likeable characters-Then there’s this. Books like this make me want to have been more severe with the others, because books like this put ” I loved ” in a whole different league.
How do I love thee…. Let me count the ways.
I loved Blue. I felt protective of her, I watched her grow, I laughed at her antics, I reasoned with her behaviour, I was anxious for her, I felt her feel. And I just fell for her. She’s a “piece of work” for sure. I will not say she’s perfect, But I genuinely liked her. Then that morphed into a familiar feeling.
I loved Wilson. I really did. I love that he’s mature & sensible & level headed & so passionate & a nerd & vulnerable & possessive & a musician. And Strong. Unafraid to try. Unafraid to figure out who he is. Bold in himself. Some may say him reciting poetry in casual conversation is pretentious, I don’t think so. He said it like it was his language,He spoke these age old words to convey what he meant. Just as simple as that. He also did n’t over do it 😀
To continue on,He was fairly ironic. Not afraid to be the butt of a ever so affectionate joke. He is truly passionate & immerses himself into life. He’s blunt without being rude. He doesn’t confine himself to sainthood, rather accepts his mistakes & works on rectifying them.
Wilson cares about people. You might not realise how much that means, how much the world needs it,Until you hit the rocks & nobody gives a damn. He loves literature. He tells stories .He unearths facts. He’s a wanderer & yet stable ground. Home.
I loved that when he was her teacher,he acted like it. He was comforting,wise & he abided by her side- Without it being about being reckless and #YOLO -_-
I loved that he sees what others don’t. That he’s precocious & British.
I loved the flow to their romance. Or Rather,to the beginning of their story. How the beginning of theirs, entwined with individual histories and expanded to those of others centuries back.
I loved how, when the words of love were said, thought, it did not feel like a unexpected blurt out of a profession.
Rather a statement with unbound presence. It lurked with a presence of limitlessness.
You felt as you read.
How accurate the descriptions were,without becoming exhausting and prolonged to read. I loved how they narration was n’t wasted on fickle information & timetable, just cause. It gave you what you wanted. Not in a sense like it was a people pleaser or anything -_- Just that, it did n’t delay-dally with pages and paras of narration to fill out the story. It did n’t need it. It created a presence of reality. It was well developed. The background, the characters,everything.
It had its blood & adrenaline pumping moments, It had its mundane ones. Yet it never failed to keep me interested. Excited. Or anxious. Though not really. Because I believed things would turn out alright. They had to. And I believed in Wilson.
I loved the little details & the larger. I loved that she carved and he played.
She made art and he made music.
I loved that they conveyed in more languages than one.
I loved that they were both bloody badass. I loved that there was angst. Unrequited love. And a taste of tragedy. The coincidence of the incomplete story of a stranger, a father, a child, a lover. And legends & battles & Shakespeare.
I loved that I laughed. That my chest tightened & swelled & squished. I loved that I loved it .
I loved that the book did not disappoint.
I went in expecting a Student-Teacher romance. It would either be a disturbingly bad one, or a sweet rollyoureyes one. Instead?
I got a murder.
I got suspense that kept my hunger sated. I had epiphanies. I got a story that affected me. That’s pretty amazing if you think about it. It demonstrates the power of words & the power of our minds. Imagination,perspective,analysis,chemical reactions,emotions.
I know I’m singing it’s praises…. Perhaps on scrutinisation it has it’s flaws, Would be absurd to assume otherwise. Inspite of that, I loved it. I guess that explains the meaning of Love, in a way. My eyes are burning, the light’s too bright, the crow outside is cawing, & my feet itch. So I’m going to stop.
I think the best way to go into a book is with curiosity & mild anticipation. I more often than not, Don’t know a thing about a book I begin. But I did check out a thing or two about this one. But I was n’r exactly filled with anticipation and overgrown hype. So I don’t know how that festered emotion would effect your experience. Hopefully it wouldn’t.
Have you read any other Amy Harmon story? Which of hers affected you the most? Heck,Tell me the name of any book that fuelled you to rant like I just did. I’ll dare to check it out 😀