I can't remember the last time I cried at a book (and I mean real tears, not just a sentimental tingle in the back of my nose -- maybe "The Diary of Anne Frank" in junior high? "Where the Red Fern Grows
Why this one? Now? (My sister just called and said, "Jesus, is everything okay?" All I could burble was: "Pudding.")
Perhaps it's because I've crossed paths with Elizabeth and Edward, and can see them both so clearly in mind, smoking on the porch of the Dey House. Perhaps it's because I love their writing (still waiting for the Parisian epic!) and would follow them into any topsy-turvy literary haunt, fictional or not.
More than anything, though, this is a portrait of the devastating, absurd, cockamamie Janus of hope and grief: both leave you aching for something that isn't there.