I wept my way through a book today.

After all of the flurry of cleaning before the party, I decided I deserved a break. So I spent much of the afternoon reading, at the usual rapid pace that I achieve whenever I'm reading anything that doesn't pertain to my dissertation, and I wept my way through The Time Traveler's Wife. I was in that fabulous reading zone that I love, where I become completely submerged in a book and devour it. Hubs hates it. I honestly think he's jealous of my capacity to tune out the world and read like that, because he always tries to get me to watch stupid things on television or talk about non-pressing issues at the most dramatic points in any given book. Anyway, I enjoyed the fragmented, postmodern qualities of The Time Traveler's Wife. The style was approachable and yet allusive and rich, and I honestly cried for most of the second half, almost continuously. The romance between the two main characters was very well developed, and the plot was unusual and deployed effectively. On one level, I could anticipate some developments, and yet on other levels, even when I reached moments that I saw coming, I didn't find the writing or the plot predictable, and I was still surprised by nuances. I'm interested to check out some of the author's subsequent works, which apparently blend tinted etchings with prose to tell stories.