Thirty pages into My Name is Asher Lev, and I am still. Everything has stopped. My worries. My list making. My neither here nor there anxieties. This is what a powerful book does to me. The space in my body normally occupied by sticky, fibrous irritations (why aren't my tomatoes growing, for one) is eclipsed by feelings so haunting and melancholy that my thoughts turn silky and blue.
This community of words, birthed years ago by Chaim Potok, are alive still, taking up residence somewhere in my cerebral cortex and elsewhere in my heart's left ventricle. A handful are living under my tongue. His words settle into my whole body, and I am buzzing for a time with Rebbe's and grief and drawings as ruminations.
Now I want to read everything. I want to lay under our Sycamore at dusk for the rest of the summer, feet scratching at the bark, and consume stories until the sky is black as ink.
Please. Tell me about a book that has changed you. There is nothing I love more than hearing others talk about the stories that animate their limbs and pulse in their wrists. I will read the books you list and by summer's end will know a little more of magic and a little more of you.