Though we had a Blogging 101 Assignment in January that encouraged us to reblog a post from another blogger, I never felt I had found the right post. This one has nothing to do with quilting, but it speaks to a connection that I feel myself. Tarry Pratchett is the only author, and I think the only public figure come to think of it, whose death moved me to tears.
Do you have an author whose books live in your heart?
You never see your loved one’s flaws. You fall in love too quickly, in a rush of delight at finding such a person, a burst of wonder that, in all this wide and fragile world, there exists a mind just like your own. Before long, they have settled down inside of you, in the vulnerable parts of your chest. Any doubt, any flaw, is drowned out by the rhythmic thump of a voice that says you are not alone.
It’s like that with books.
There are so many books, so many writers I could tell you about, which would make me look clever, or deep, or wise. But let’s be honest with each other for a moment: those are not the books which live within you. The books you fall in love with are the books with flaws. They are the books you devoured late at night under the sheets…
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