This is the gorgeous title of a gorgeous new book by Anthony Doerr. I finished reading it on my way home from Houston and I felt transformed by the experience.
When you love a book as much as I loved that one, it's hard not to put on a white shirt, a tie, a pair of shiny Swedish knit pants from Mr. Mac's, and a nametag in order to proselytize the reading public so that they, too, can partake in the rapture. (Right. I'm mixing religious metaphors here.) This, of course, can be a dangerous thing because maybe I just read this book at exactly, exactly the right time so that it spoke to me on a cellular level, which would make me a problematic judge. Is the book as stunning as I think it is?
I don't know. But I lived a life apart every time I opened it. I could taste it. It's been a long time since I've felt this way about a novel.
Incidentally (and not that it matters), four of my all-time favorite books are set against the backdrop of WWII--
The Madonnas of Leningrad (Debra Dean)
Prince of the Clouds (Gianni Riotta)
The Lost Garden (Helen Humphreys)
And now this.