In other news, John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany is one of the best, most gorgeously written, thoughtfully constructed, and lovingly finished books I have ever read. I laughed. I was deeply saddened. I was frustrated, then forgiving. Terrified, then horrified. In complete awe of the language, until I forgot it utterly. Impressed by faith, and impressed by doubt. And for the first time ever, I truly believed in the ghosts.
The entire thing is just amazing; I know I have more to say, but I don't know what. I don't even yet know what I'm supposed to make of that ending; all I want to do is start over and read it again. This book is resurrection.
Unfortunately, the book's ultimate thesis does nothing for my wretched disposition for 2012 thus far. But if it weren't presently contributing to that, I'm sure I'd love it even more. I will certainly need to come back to it.