A writer who has never told the truth about her life hires a biographer to finally get that story.
This book is lovely.
When I read this again, and I know I will even with the mystery resolved, I’m reading it with a highlighter so I can find all the good sentences again. There are many, mostly about the comfort to be found in beloved books. This is a novel about stories, true and false ones, and how to find the truth buried in fiction. It’s about the search for family, which sometimes you find and sometimes you lose, and about making peace with your ghosts.
I bought this book entirely on impulse—I liked the cover, there’s something so homey about a stack of books—and I’m so glad I did. It’s like having a three-hour conversation with someone you’ve just met. You look up and realize you’ve found a friend.
People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist . . . It is a kind of magic.
Mirrored from Jenna Jones.com.