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Eleventh of the Eleventh.
I've started reading Simon Stålenhag's books that aren't quite graphic novels, but aren't close to anything else, either. I put in two holds this morning, then cancelled one on the grounds that instead of tearing through all five the library has, I'll let myself draw it out a bit longer. He's masterful at creating a massive world and narrowing down the focus to the point the reader knows there's way more out there, but because the characters aren't seeing or thinking about any of that, it's never shown.
There's some people I've known who'd have loved it. What I feel isn't anger that I can't show it to them, but sorrow that I'll never be able to share it with them. In some ways, it's less painful to think of friends who've passed on than those who've drifted away or left in a mess - we were still friends up until they were gone. So when I see a book they'd have liked, even though I'll never know exactly what they'd have thought of it, I know we'd have had a good time talking about it. His use of color, his aptitude at capturing the way kids make up new rules for the world. They would've loved it, and I'll hold that close as I try to savor each page.
There's some people I've known who'd have loved it. What I feel isn't anger that I can't show it to them, but sorrow that I'll never be able to share it with them. In some ways, it's less painful to think of friends who've passed on than those who've drifted away or left in a mess - we were still friends up until they were gone. So when I see a book they'd have liked, even though I'll never know exactly what they'd have thought of it, I know we'd have had a good time talking about it. His use of color, his aptitude at capturing the way kids make up new rules for the world. They would've loved it, and I'll hold that close as I try to savor each page.