"She looks up at me, holds out a piece of paper, and says, 'Look, Henry, she wrote me a poem.' As I sit beside Clare and read the poem I forgive Lucille, a little, for her colossal selfishness and her monstrous dying, and I look up at Clare. 'It's beautiful.' I say, and she nods, satisfied for a moment that her mother really did love her. I think about my mother singing lieder after lunch on a summer afternoon, smiling at our reflection in a shop window, twirling in a blue dress across the floor of her dressing room. She loved me. I never questioned her love. Lucille was changeable as wind. The poem Clare holds is evidence, immutable, undeniable, a snapshot of an emotion. I look around at the pools of paper on the floor and I am relieved that something in this mess has risen to the surface to be Clare's lifeboat. "
This is one of the FEW books in which I come back to and reread.
It's an amazing piece of literature. AMAZING!
The only other book I reread is To Kill A Mockingbird. For me to allow another book in this realm is a cosmic shift in the universe. To Kill A Mockingbird is sacred, hallowed ground.
Every so often, my mind is scattered, rendered useless. I gravitate toward something to read to stabilize me. The other day I picked up Time Traveler's Wife again and I was riveted all over again. So much detail. I was Clare. Sometimes I am Henry. Everytime I stop by for a visit, I find a new jewel such as the quote above and my soul is restored.
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