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Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson
Only on page 66, but what a beautiful read. The language and images are so beautiful.
It's moved me to tears, several times already--and I've not felt that these tears were jerked out of me through emotional blackmail. I realize now how the situation of a novel (or other piece of work) warrants sympathy, empathy, and all that.
Here's the last true passage (of many) I'd read:
"You feel your obligation to a child when you have seen it and held it. Any human face is a claim on you, because you can't help but understand the singularity of it, the courage and loneliness of it."
It offers up a depiction of poverty that is not poverty porn; it mentions Georges Bernanos' Diary of a Country Priest and the Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918.
Plus, I hear there's a twist coming my way, somewhere in the middle of the novel.
Thank you, Chingbee Cruz, for recommending.
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