Glad this is worth the read. I really loved some stories out of St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves. sharingtime: I struggled to get through the first half of this. Then I burned through a big chunk, got stuck again, and was so horrified by a plot twist near the end that I was determined to dislike the rest. And yet, ten pages later I read a paragraph so fucking beautiful that it made reading the whole thing worth it. As I turned the last page of the book, I almost cried. It surprised me. I wasn’t reading anything particularly sad. But I didn’t! Then as I was typing this, the tears came. Not a tear. A bunch of ‘em. It was because I remembered an anecdote about a family friend that I hadn’t thought about in years. Some background: the family friend was a voracious reader, in addition to being a mom and a wife. Sweet lady. Anyways, the anecdote was this: on getting a book from the library/bookstore, she would immediately skip to the last page and read the last paragraph. She shared this bit of info with people. I never got why. I love having a story unfold in front of my eyes. I love not knowing about a book before diving into it. Why potentially ruin the book for yourself? Why do that? Just read the stupid thing! She ended up dying of cancer a few years after the anecdote was told to me. She was young, still in her 40s. I guess the crying was a reaction to linking those two pieces of information together in my brain…the woman who read the last page of a book before she even started the damn thing is also the same woman who died of cancer at a young age. So that’s what I thought about as I read the last page. That because this book was released long after she died, she wasn’t able to read its last page. But here I am, still relatively young, and soaking up every word. And I had the distinct luxury of reading the whole goddamn book before I did.

Glad this is worth the read. I really loved some stories out of St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves.

sharingtime:

I struggled to get through the first half of this. Then I burned through a big chunk, got stuck again, and was so horrified by a plot twist near the end that I was determined to dislike the rest. And yet, ten pages later I read a paragraph so fucking beautiful that it made reading the whole thing worth it.

As I turned the last page of the book, I almost cried. It surprised me. I wasn’t reading anything particularly sad. But I didn’t! Then as I was typing this, the tears came. Not a tear. A bunch of ‘em.

It was because I remembered an anecdote about a family friend that I hadn’t thought about in years. Some background: the family friend was a voracious reader, in addition to being a mom and a wife. Sweet lady.

Anyways, the anecdote was this: on getting a book from the library/bookstore, she would immediately skip to the last page and read the last paragraph. She shared this bit of info with people. I never got why. I love having a story unfold in front of my eyes. I love not knowing about a book before diving into it. Why potentially ruin the book for yourself? Why do that? Just read the stupid thing!

She ended up dying of cancer a few years after the anecdote was told to me. She was young, still in her 40s. I guess the crying was a reaction to linking those two pieces of information together in my brain…the woman who read the last page of a book before she even started the damn thing is also the same woman who died of cancer at a young age.

So that’s what I thought about as I read the last page. That because this book was released long after she died, she wasn’t able to read its last page. But here I am, still relatively young, and soaking up every word.

And I had the distinct luxury of reading the whole goddamn book before I did.

Source: sharingtime
  1. byanyname reblogged this from sharingtime and added:
    really loved some stories out...St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves.
  2. noraleah said: so you’re telling me i should give it another chance? ok then.
  3. sharingtime posted this