I don't know what time period my love for books and writing in general died, but there was a moment it did. And it was scary! Because reading was the first thing I excelled at--reading and writing, and words in general were the first things I was passionate about. Stories. Stories (stories held in BOOKS, specifically),had always held a higher esteem regarding the critics within me. Books weren't lack-luster, gimmicky, or cheap as reality shows or corny sitcom reruns were on television. They were works of art. Sometimes they were even instant classics. And they taught you something.
I remember this one time a teacher of mine wondered why anyone ever pick up a Harry Potter book. "What do they even teach you? Why do you kids read them?!" I just stared at her, my mouth going a little slack. Was she SIRIUS? However, as the years have passed, and more authors grapple to climb their way to the Best Seller's List, to get that Pulitzer, that Pintz, that new major motions picture, I have found that the quality of writing in books have become....just...*disappointing* And cheap. And lack-luster. And gimmicky. But after all the years, and all the times I forced myself to begin a tale, only to find out later it followed the same formula, the same script, I have finally found something original, factually CORRECT, and enjoyable. I LOVED this book. It wasn't trying to be pretentiously philosophical like a John Green novel (I really just don't like his novels. Not HIM. Just his novels). It wasn't gimmicky. It wasn't forced. It was a STORY. With CHARACTERS. And the writing is so excellent, it could have very well been a best-seller, but if I'm mistaken, I don't think Miss Statham was aiming for that (not saying the quality of the books is not 'Best-selling material', just saying that you know when authors I trying TOO hard to fill in those slots). It was simple, and yet it wasn't. I adored Outil. Ou-freakin-til. OUTIL! OUTIIIIL! *okay done now*
I never knew my favorite character in a book would end up being the ROBOT, but she just...ugh. And as awesome and charming as Jacques was (I had SUCH a crush on him the whole time. Like the from the very first introduction of him. I was rooting for him, really), Outil was a reminder of how valuable Claude was too. And Marguerite. Marguerite (did you ever get the hang of writing her name correctly while typing this? THANK AUTOCORRECT) I liked her, because at times I DIDN'T. How many times in our lives have we been likable to the general public. I'm sure if I watched a recording of my life, I would be banging the tele screen crying, "Girl. Get. Your. Self. Together!" A slap for each syllable. And at times...I felt like that with Lady Vadnay. But she learns something. And I learned something. And I miss books where it was like that. Where the characters go on a journey, their weaker, or worst, or flawed selves, and come out their stronger, their better, their renewed selves. So thanks you, Miss Statham, for rekindling something that had died long ago. My obsession for books, and the stories within them. Going to pick up another one this week--Can't let the fire die!
P.s: the ending. like the very, very very ending, on a certain page *spoiler*, back there with the acknowledgements, is what REALLY tied it up nicely for me. It wrapped the story up nicer then the epilogue, and I LOVED that. Okay, I'm done.