My eyes are puffy and my head still hurts from sobbing after I finished this book late last night. I'm afraid to watch the movies for fear it may spoil the deeply emotional story (it did so with White Oleander, despite me imagining Michelle Pfiefer as the mother in the book too)--although I would not mind seeing Eric Bana drop naked every 5 minutes.
I must meet Audrey Niffenegger, my idol for the moment, since she's from Chicago and still teaches here (I believe), and ask her if it was just as hard for her to write the novel as it was for us to read it.
And now I want to be a librarian.
Found some more good and interesting reads online, despite my stack of 15 books waiting for me since I graduated college a month ago. Next in my purse is Girls of Riyadh, and after that may be Rembrandt's Whore.
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