A few weeks ago, I caught myself sincerely asking the question "why read anything but classics?" Obviously this is a stupid sentiment, but I had become so turned about in my personal theory of reading that it was a legitimate question to wrestle with. Incidentally, this dilemma coincided with a marked decrease in my reading volume, since I had to be reading "right" and not simply as I felt. I decided to answer the charge directly and went and bought a bag full of used pulp, which included this book.
It is the story of a young girl whose life is thrown off course when she develops arthritis. It details the various social and personal issues that develop with impressive foresight (likely because of the author's own experience with juvenile arthritis). The parents doubt that an issue exist, the friends are overly sympathetic then unsympathetic, and all the while the girl wonders if she'll ever be able to run or bowl again. Despite the unknowable pain and loss that juvenile arthritis entails, the author is unafraid to offer hope and guidance that is applicable to loss of all kinds: whatever may be lost, there are still joys--even new joys--to be had, and the only way you lose is if you quit.
The novel closes with the girl walking a 10k that she used to compete for first in. It is a resignation of sorts since she may never run again, yet it is also her triumph as a month before she could hardly walk. When her friends leave rather than sticking around to celebrate (they aren't runners after all), she is encouraged and not embittered by the return to normalcy.
I had a great time reading this little story. It is not sublime, it is not deviously clever, but it is deeply human and therefore poignant. Perhaps this is why we read