I can't describe it as anything less than that. Re-reading anything is a rare, rare, rarer than once-in-a-blue-moon event with me, and yet I've found myself going back to her books time and time again. I have the shortest attention span with books. I can't adequately sum up my emotions for her books except to say, from the bottom of my heart, that I love them, utterly. She is one of my favorite authors, and for me, there's just no words for how stupidly wonderful I find her books, because I have not the talent with words that she has. It's a rare author who is able to evoke that kind of emotion in their readers, and I can only say that reading Tana French always brings a stab of exquisite pain to my heart. They squeeze your chest, they make your eyes sting with unshed tears. I lived her life, for a few strange bright weeks her blood went into making me what I am, the same way it went to make the bluebells and the hawthorn treeSome books hurt. I wear her face as I get older it’ll stay her changing mirror, the one glimpse of all the ages she never had.
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