“We all come into existence as a single cell, smaller than a speck of dust. Much smaller. Divide. Multiply. Add and subtract. Matter changes hands, atoms flow in and out, molecules pivot, proteins stitch together, mitochondria send out their oxidative dictates; we begin as a microscopic electrical swarm. The lungs the brain the heart. Forty weeks later, six trillion cells get crushed in the vise of our mother’s birth canal and we howl. Then the world starts in on us.”
It’s so rare that a passage of writing stops me. Makes me re-read it. Compels me to contemplate the author behind the words and the state of mind he or she must have had when sitting at the computer, typewriter, notepad. But in All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr, I stopped many times. My breath momentarily taken away by beautiful prose. And I wasn’t distracted by it, as I so normally am. I was taken in and caught up in a beautiful story.
I nearly finished the book over lunch this past Friday. I was so, so close to the end, but had to return to my desk at work. And so I set out down the streets of downtown Cincinnati with my nose still pressed between the pages, glancing up every now and then to make sure I didn’t run into anyone or anything. And that, I think, is the best sign of a good book. One you are willing to risk injury for all in the name of find out what happens next.
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