Oh my word. That book! I was up reading until after midnight last night, and then I woke up at 5:30 this morning to finish reading it. I wanted to quit reading it, just put it down and walk away altogether, about a third of the way through the book because the language was so awful and some of the scenes were so . . .
I need to scrub my brain. With bleach. Twice.
But by the time all the objectionable stuff started, and kept getting worse, I was already hooked. I had to finish that book. I had to see what happened.
So this morning at 6:00 I was sitting on my bed crying as I read the letter that Henry wrote to Clare before . . . you know . . . for her to open and read only after . . . you know . . . and it was all so good in such a horrible way.
And a few pages later the book ended. And the end, the very very end? Was devastatingly anticlimactic.
Which is quite ironic, given all the climaxes in the rest of the book.
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt is glad he isn’t Henry. Or Clare. Especially Clare.