I finished it last night and had tears streaming down my face. I went into the bedroom where Rob was watching the Ultimate Fighter (hey, he has his passions I have mine) and buried my face in Isis’ warm chest, still crying.
The main dog doesn’t die, or anything, but I felt so bad for her having lost her owner. Kinda more bad than I did for the widower.
The question is, why do I enjoy books that make me so sad?
It was a good book for me to read this week, because (and this will shock no one) I’ve decided my next novel will be about a woman and her dog. Usually I’m in the middle of reading two or three books. I’m still working on Travels with Charley and Mountains in the Clouds. I just got A Home at the End of the World on CD from the library.
The Dogs of Babel, however, is the type of book I make time to read, am eager to finish and am sad when it ends. A “page-turner,” you might say. “I couldn’t put it down.”
It’s like Anna Quindlen says in her jacket quote: “I read it without stopping, and I loved it completely.”