"People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some their is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic."
I'm only a few chapters in and already enchanted by Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale. Readers and writers will be smitten with this love letter to story—I highly recommend to all my fellow English majors out there!
Anyone read it? Thoughts (without giving anything away!)?