Bc it’s my favorite book of all time it feels ludicrous to review it. It feels like writing a review of my husband. “He’s kind. He can fix things. I love his eyes.” Any attempt makes a mockery of my marriage bc whatever I feel for my husband is deeper than words. It’s the same for Owen Meany.
When I read it I feel it in the arches of my feet. I cry on and off for about half the book. I sob at the end. My faith, my belief in the goodness, is restored over and over and over again. It is the only book I’ve ever read that spoke to me this way – the only book that’s ever meant so much.
Nothing I write will do it justice. And I don’t suggest you read it. To recommend it is pointless. My feelings for it are thus that I can’t tell you if it’s a good book. I’m past the story and the writing and the characters. I’m past objectivity. I won’t profane my literary soulmate by trying to explain it to others. It is what it is – the best book I’ve ever read.