I started this on audio in the car, but I couldn’t quit listening. The story sunk in its hooks, reeled me in, and failed to catch and release me. Thank goodness. I took the book in the house and listened to it obsessively until I finished. Now, I want to describe what I thought and how it made me feel, but I can’t.
Something is seriously wrong with me, because when a book grabs on hard and touches something deep inside me, I can never write a review that makes any sort of sense. Real words fail me completely.
All I can come up with is a string of curse words to express my emotions, which is very non-specific, extremely unsophisticated, and basically useless in writing a book review, but it feels oh-so-right when I say them aloud. When a book ends, and I respond within the first minute with one random curse, it says everything, and yet somehow nothing, about the novel all at once.
Honestly, some days I think my Goodreads rating system would make more sense based on which curse word comes first from my mouth at the end. Of course, only those that make a lasting impression seem to inspire my vulgarity.
This novel got a giant F bomb, then another, and finally a third. That is the magnitude of my emotional commitment to the story, my love for the characters, and the kind of persistent heartache it evokes that is both brutally painful and eternally hopeful.
So, should everyone read Eleanor & Park? Apparently I effing think so. I want to march straight back to school and deliver it to as many students as possible, and then I could take on the teachers next and after that the whole community, except I resigned my post as librarian.
This novel makes me feel like an idiot for resigning my post as a librarian. Because I feel certain people need me to tell them about this novel. People everywhere, but especially here, need to read this novel, and now I have let them all down.
So in summary, I suck, but this novel definitely doesn’t. It’s the complete opposite of suckage.