I appreciate books that make my cry. As long as they’re not playing with my emotions in a cheap way; but while I will sometimes cry for cheesy movies, I don’t often cry for cheesy books.
Or for good books, for that matter. I will get an ache inside, I imagine my face scrunches up in weird ways, but tears aren’t often involved.
I cried when I finished The Habit of Being. In fact, I cried when I read the introduction to the last section, which contained the letters written by Flannery O’Connor during the last year of her life.
Flannery has been dead for 47 years, but I felt a deep sense of loss nonetheless. As I neared the end of the book (which is nearly 600 pages), I found the pull to read it stronger and stronger (at the expense of Things I Should Be Doing, like grading essays and homework). And yet the more I read, the closer I came to the end. Dread of reaching the end, yet not wanting to spend time away from the book–a tough tension to navigate.
I’ve been meaning to blog about Flannery for some time, because she has put so much into words and has touched me in a real way. But this post was just to say I cried, because now she is gone.