im half way thru the time travelers wife and i am completely captivated by it.
i got hooked when i first saw the commercial for the new movie, to say the least i am a huge sucker for romance stories. what is so great about a love story, especially in a book, is its ability to completely draw you in to the feelings that those two people have for one another. what i love about this novel in particular is that their story isn't perfect. those are the best love stories. they make me incredibly lovemush over the idea that the fantastic feelings and moments i have with TP cant be tainted by all the negatives in our lives, that at times can be crushingly overwhelming.
People dont seem to regard love and relationships as something sacred as much as they used to. i know how crushing being lonely can feel...yet now even when times are tough i still feel so lucky that i have found the one person in the univerese that i can give my heart too, who i believe also regards love and commitment as highly as i do. the word "love" gets thrown around alot these days, and my sister and i even joke about how gross it is when people are super love mush on each other. but love is such an amazing and overwhelming force. if you are lucky enough to find someone that you can bask in those fated moments with, no words can describe how happy it can make you..
anyhow. I could read the prologue to this book a million times over and still love it...
here is a little sneak peak for you;
Clare: Its hard being left behind. I wait for Henry, not knowing where he is, wondering if hes okay. Its hard to be the one who stays.
I keep myself busy. Time goes faster that way.
I go to sleep alone, I wake up alone. I take walks. I work until im tired. I watch the wind play with the trash thats been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it.
Why is love intensified by absence?
Long ago, men went to sea, and women waited for them, standing on the edge of the water scanning the horizon for the tiny ship. Now I wait for Henry. He vanishes unwillingly, without warning. I wait for him. Each moment I wait feels like a year, an enternity. Each moment is slow and as transparent as glass. Through each moment I can see infinite moments lined up, waiting. Why has he gone where I cannot follow?
Henry: ...And Clare, always Clare. Clare in the morning, sleepy and crumple-faced. Clare with her arms plunging into the papermaking vat, pulling up the mold and shaking it so, and so, to meld the fibers. Clare reading with her hair hanging over the back of the chair, massaging balm into her cracked red hands before bed. Clare`s low voice is in my ear often.
I hate to be where she is not, when she is not. And, yet I am always going, and she cannot follow.
