I am not interested in dissecting books and writing and stories.
I am interested in how they make me feel.
How they make me think.
My emotional response.
I try to avoid summarising the story as so many seem to do.
I try not to be swayed by other thoughts and reviews and I definitely try not to bother about how realistic a story, it's characters and places may be.
After all, I mostly read fiction which, right from the start, is imagined.
Made up.
Not to mention that many authors give readers a message of intent in hope of avoiding confusion.
I don't know much about cancer.
My grand mother died of melanoma but that gives me no insight into others experiences.
This story made me feel light.
There was also heaviness, the type that comes with helplessness and sorrow.
And yet, there was so much elation and humour.
Who are we if we can't laugh despite everything?
Touchiness (touchy and touching), inevitabilities, fleetingness.
Sometimes it is hard to 'be'.
Sometimes we only have what we have.
In the face of death, experience surely becomes ageless?
Mostly I loved the small simplicities, the love and the aching beauty.
