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>I finished a book last night that gripped my heart with it’s beautiful prose. It wasn’t poetic by any means. When I first picked it up and realized it was a story that was translated from one language to another, I was worried the initial spell of the prose would be lost. I was wrong.

The novel is described as “lucid and gripping … prose is illuminating. Clever and artfully told, it is also a rarity … both a galloping good read and a magical, intricately wrought work of art that reveals layer upon layer, nuance upon nuance.”

This is not a review. Rather, it’s a post about me being lost to a book that was ‘beautiful’. How often do you put a book down and find tears cascade down your face, not because of the heart wrenching emotional impact of the story, but because of the words? My husband is always bothered when I cry over a book and wanted to know if I needed to talk about it (apparently I usually do need to). The only words I had for him was it was a beautiful book. Yes, the last 10 pages were sad, but if you had read them on its own, there would been no impact.

This is how I want to write. Beautiful. I’m not there. But I will be. Because now I ‘get it’. I get it. The beauty of words. The plot, the structure, the characters – they are all nothing without the words. I will buy this book. I’ll read it again and again, because of the words. I hope you do too.

The Breakwater House by Pascale Quiviger.

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