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The English Girl
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Me Before You
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by Jojo Moyes (Goodreads Author)
bookshelves: currently-reading
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Cindywalter's Recent Updates

Cindywalter is currently reading
The English Girl by Daniel Silva
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The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin
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Cindywalter rated a book 3 of 5 stars
An Invisible Thread by Laura Schroff
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Me Before You by Jojo Moyes
Me Before You
by Jojo Moyes (Goodreads Author)
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This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper
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262545
"No, just a recommendation from a patient at the hospital who loved it. "
Cindywalter rated a book 3 of 5 stars
The Whistling Season by Ivan Doig
The Whistling Season
by Ivan Doig
read in July, 2014
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Very well written, but not enough happening until the end of the book. Most reviews are 4 and 5 stars, so give it a try.
Cindywalter rated a book 4 of 5 stars
Pantaloon by Kathryn Jackson
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Childhood favorite. Just ordered a copy from Amazon so I will have it on hand to read to my grandson!
Cindywalter rated a book 3 of 5 stars
Life After Life by Kate Atkinson
Life After Life
by Kate Atkinson
read in June, 2014
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Cindywalter started reading
The Whistling Season by Ivan Doig
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More of Cindywalter's books…
August Wilson
“Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing.”
August Wilson

Alan Bennett
“What she was finding also was how one book led to another, doors kept opening wherever she turned and the days weren't long enough for the reading she wanted to do.”
Alan Bennett, The Uncommon Reader

Maurice Sendak
“A book is really like a lover. It arranges itself in your life in a way that is beautiful.”
Maurice Sendak

Donna Tartt
“I look at the blanked-out faces of the other passengers--hoisting their briefcases, their backpacks, shuffling to disembark--and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful.

Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet--for me, anyway--all that's worth living for lies in that charm?

A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are.

Because--isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart."

Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?”
Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

Donna Tartt
“But I couldn’t. It was real; I knew it, even in the dark. Raised yellow streak of paint on the wing and feathers scratched in with the butt of the brush. One chip on the upper left edge that hadn’t been there before, tiny mar less than two millimeters, but otherwise: perfect. I was different, but it wasn’t. And as the light flickered over it in bands, I had the queasy sense of my own life, in comparison, as a patternless and transient burst of energy, a fizz of biological static just as random as the street lamps flashing past.”
Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

Jean
232 books | 19 friends

Ryan
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Shelley
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Gary
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Kathy
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Frank W...
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Veraruczy
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Jay Walter
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