mybookjournal

3.5stars

When I started the book initially i had a feeling that this was going to be a definite 5 star read for me especially because this book was about books and I thought i might like Margaret Lea as a character . But then as the story progressed Vida Winter came into picture and I forgot about Margaret Lea. The initial impact which Margaret had on me was gone in between the narration of Vida Winters’. Also in the middle it was kind of dragging and Margaret’s past story, her twin, her mother not being there for her and all that stuff seemed forced to the story so that part did not interest me much. Even the connection between the stories (past, present) and the thing that in the end it was Margaret who got all connection right was just a bit too perfect to believe.
But then again there are thing that i really enjoyed about this book too. I loved the authors writing, her imagination and the suspense in the story was great and above all i loved the way how all the characters talked about books, and their love for reading and of course there were some beautiful quotes which I read again and again, especially the below excerpt from the book.

“I have closed my study door on the world and shut myself away with people of my imagination. For nearly sixty years I have eavesdropped with impunity on the lives of people who do not exist. I have peeped shamelessly into hearts and bathroom closets. I have leaned over shoulders to follow the movements of quills as they write love letters, wills and confessions. I have watched as lovers love, murderers murder and children play their make-believe. Prisons and brothels have opened their doors to me; galleons and camel trains have transported me across sea and sand; centuries and continents have fallen away at my bidding. I have spied upon the misdeeds of the mighty and witnessed the nobility of the meek. I have bent so low over sleepers in their beds that they might have felt my breath on their faces. I have seen their dreams.
My study throngs with characters waiting to be written. Imaginary people, anxious for a life, who tug at my sleeve, crying, ’Me next! Go on! My turn!”