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3.66 AVERAGE
3.66 AVERAGE
emotional
sad
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Reading the cover, I thought this book was about someone who was TALL. Which it is, but it’s sort of a thinly veiled retelling of the life of Robert Wadlow. The tallest person who ever lived (he got to be 8 ’11).
Historical fiction makes me grumpy. Because I want everything spread out, black and white, on the left are things factual things that absolutely happened, on the right is purely conjecture, and fiction.
I love fantasy, I love fiction that doesn’t make me depressed (sorry Oprah’s book club, not a fan here). But the genre that straddles the middle apparently riles me up.
I didn’t love this book….but it had some really good quotes in it. And I’ve decided to let the good quotes, help balance my cranky into.
He seemed studious, though studious is too often the word we give to quiet odd people.
Either they are amazed by something a beloved knows that they themselves do not know, or they discover common rare knowledge; or they can supply knowledge to someone who’s lacking. Hasn’t anyone found a strange ignorance in someone beguiling?
Mr. Sweatt was a boisterous, friendly guy. A bad guy who made himself seem nice sometimes. Or the other way around, you know the type?
I am not a person who likes to be touched casually, which means of course that I like it a great deal. Every little touch takes on great meaning.
Truthfully, this is the fabric of all my fantasies; love shown not by a kiss or a wild look or a careful hand but by a willingness for research. I don’t dream of someone who understands me immediately, who seems to have known me my whole life, who says I know, me too. I want someone keen to learn my own strange organization, amazed at what’s revealed; someone who asks, and then what, and then what?
James looked terrified. Boys never see grown woman cry. Or perhaps he had – what did I know of this life when I wasn’t around? Perhaps his Mother cried every day she lived. Perhaps the secret of her perfect skin was gentle tears, applied first thing in the morning and just before bed.
But what Caroline was doing was not an everyday occurrence. It was something hoarded, a fortune stuffed under a mattress that has inexplicably managed to gather interest as fast as any bank account. ….I didn’t know why she was crying, and I wanted to know, I wanted it explained. I wanted her to say: this is guilt, this is delayed grief, this is postpartum depression mixed with a lot of other things. I hadn’t ever seen anyone cry like this in all my life. It was like she was poisoned and crying was the only way to get the poison out.
The music was slow treacle. Boys sat on the floor or the bed, looking up at the couple every now and then, not talking. Other people’s happiness is always a fascinating bore. It sucks the oxygen out of the room; you’re left gasping, greedy, amazed by a deficit in yourself you hadn’t ever noticed.
She’s pretty, I said, which was what I said as soon as I could about any pretty girl. I wanted people to know I saw it too.
There was no seating plan, which meant that Stella was more civilized than I’d thought: seating plans, in my opinion, are a form of social incarceration.
A blonde in coral lipstick that looked like a medicine to prevent infection.
**
“Every now and then, I get offered a chair, and I think, nope, not going to fall for this again, but of course I do, and when I go to sit down, it’s been pulled out from under me.”
“But your heart was never broken.” Said James
“Not my heart,” I said. “I never landed on my heart.”
**
Patty Flood and her good mood were starting to get on my nerves. Her mood was so good it was almost a physical thing, a monkey on a leash that she let leap all over the furniture, delighting only it’s owner.
And while I was not an admirer of people in the specific, I liked them in the abstract. It is only the execution of the idea that disappoints.
In the book, and in Robert Wadlow’s life, was the fear that he wouldn’t be properly buried, that someone would steal his bones and exhibit them, and he would be ever on display.
It felt like this book was meant in tribute. It doesn’t display his bones so to speak, it’s meant to give him more substance then just “tallest man in the world.” But for me, it fell a little flat. The James of this book, never seemed to get off the page.
The character of Peg, the much older (13 years I think?) woman who became a fixture in his life when he was 12, and truly became obsessed, perhaps not obsessed in a way that meant harm, or was sexually predatory. Yet…there was an amorphous relationship, never defined but growing and expanding all the same. But I didn’t understand, the nature of why she was so drawn to him. He liked learning new things, and?
Theirs was a relationship of two people who live quietly in their heads, yet, somehow connect, without saying very many words. My relationships, have always had a lot of words. So, that may be the reason in itself.
Historical fiction makes me grumpy. Because I want everything spread out, black and white, on the left are things factual things that absolutely happened, on the right is purely conjecture, and fiction.
I love fantasy, I love fiction that doesn’t make me depressed (sorry Oprah’s book club, not a fan here). But the genre that straddles the middle apparently riles me up.
I didn’t love this book….but it had some really good quotes in it. And I’ve decided to let the good quotes, help balance my cranky into.
Spoiler
I felt that if those old people had some essential information they should write it down themselves. A life story can make adequate conversation but bad history.He seemed studious, though studious is too often the word we give to quiet odd people.
Either they are amazed by something a beloved knows that they themselves do not know, or they discover common rare knowledge; or they can supply knowledge to someone who’s lacking. Hasn’t anyone found a strange ignorance in someone beguiling?
Mr. Sweatt was a boisterous, friendly guy. A bad guy who made himself seem nice sometimes. Or the other way around, you know the type?
I am not a person who likes to be touched casually, which means of course that I like it a great deal. Every little touch takes on great meaning.
Truthfully, this is the fabric of all my fantasies; love shown not by a kiss or a wild look or a careful hand but by a willingness for research. I don’t dream of someone who understands me immediately, who seems to have known me my whole life, who says I know, me too. I want someone keen to learn my own strange organization, amazed at what’s revealed; someone who asks, and then what, and then what?
James looked terrified. Boys never see grown woman cry. Or perhaps he had – what did I know of this life when I wasn’t around? Perhaps his Mother cried every day she lived. Perhaps the secret of her perfect skin was gentle tears, applied first thing in the morning and just before bed.
But what Caroline was doing was not an everyday occurrence. It was something hoarded, a fortune stuffed under a mattress that has inexplicably managed to gather interest as fast as any bank account. ….I didn’t know why she was crying, and I wanted to know, I wanted it explained. I wanted her to say: this is guilt, this is delayed grief, this is postpartum depression mixed with a lot of other things. I hadn’t ever seen anyone cry like this in all my life. It was like she was poisoned and crying was the only way to get the poison out.
The music was slow treacle. Boys sat on the floor or the bed, looking up at the couple every now and then, not talking. Other people’s happiness is always a fascinating bore. It sucks the oxygen out of the room; you’re left gasping, greedy, amazed by a deficit in yourself you hadn’t ever noticed.
She’s pretty, I said, which was what I said as soon as I could about any pretty girl. I wanted people to know I saw it too.
There was no seating plan, which meant that Stella was more civilized than I’d thought: seating plans, in my opinion, are a form of social incarceration.
A blonde in coral lipstick that looked like a medicine to prevent infection.
**
“Every now and then, I get offered a chair, and I think, nope, not going to fall for this again, but of course I do, and when I go to sit down, it’s been pulled out from under me.”
“But your heart was never broken.” Said James
“Not my heart,” I said. “I never landed on my heart.”
**
Patty Flood and her good mood were starting to get on my nerves. Her mood was so good it was almost a physical thing, a monkey on a leash that she let leap all over the furniture, delighting only it’s owner.
And while I was not an admirer of people in the specific, I liked them in the abstract. It is only the execution of the idea that disappoints.
In the book, and in Robert Wadlow’s life, was the fear that he wouldn’t be properly buried, that someone would steal his bones and exhibit them, and he would be ever on display.
It felt like this book was meant in tribute. It doesn’t display his bones so to speak, it’s meant to give him more substance then just “tallest man in the world.” But for me, it fell a little flat. The James of this book, never seemed to get off the page.
The character of Peg, the much older (13 years I think?) woman who became a fixture in his life when he was 12, and truly became obsessed, perhaps not obsessed in a way that meant harm, or was sexually predatory. Yet…there was an amorphous relationship, never defined but growing and expanding all the same. But I didn’t understand, the nature of why she was so drawn to him. He liked learning new things, and?
Theirs was a relationship of two people who live quietly in their heads, yet, somehow connect, without saying very many words. My relationships, have always had a lot of words. So, that may be the reason in itself.
Librarian has a relationship with a boy/man with gigantism. A little weird, and the librarian is stereotyped.
Eh, Elizabeth McCracken has done better. James as a character wasn't fleshed out enough to make me really care about him and something about Peggy's feelings for him never really rang true. The book meandered along without really going anywhere. It was disappointing because I really enjoyed Niagra Falls All Over Again.
Good, but not great. Kind of a weird story, in fact. And a little sad. Not what I expected since my friend said it was 'light'.
"Romantic thinking runs in the family," said Caroline. "Bad as arthritis."
"Well then," the doctor said. "Perhaps he'll die of that." . . . "That is not a diagnosis mind you. I am not qualified to diagnosis romance."
"I'm sure you aren't, Doctor," said Caroline.
"Well then," the doctor said. "Perhaps he'll die of that." . . . "That is not a diagnosis mind you. I am not qualified to diagnosis romance."
"I'm sure you aren't, Doctor," said Caroline.
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
The main character was such a drag and I couldn’t get past how weird the entire premise of this book was. On top of that the ending is SO bizarre and off putting. Basically nothing redeeming here
In a small town on Cape Cod in 1950, librarian Peggy meets an unusual eleven-year-old boy. James is already 6'5" by age twelve, and he keeps growing until he is over eight feet tall. Both of them feel like outsiders in the small town, and they form a friendship, beginning with Peggy finding a wide assortment of books for the avid reader. As he continues to grow, health problems develop, and Peggy gradually gets to know James' family, too. It's a love story, which seems a little ick at first (she's 26 and he's 11), but it begins with friendship and there's nothing sordid here. The story includes tragedy and sorrow but also joy, as the two of them form a unique bond and support each other. It's a quiet, thoughtful novel that I enjoyed on audio. I talk more about it in this video, starting at 12:24: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-Mm_Tz6Fuk
A strange love story of a twenty-six year old librarian and the twelve year old boy who grows into a giant.