I just finished Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I have a soft spot for grieving stories. Sometimes I am like nine year old Oskar Schell where I give myself a bruise even when I know I shouldn't, maybe because I shouldn't. These aren't real bruises of course, just...whatever they are.
Oskar's dad passed away two years before the story begins. One of the greatest tragedies of death is the selfish realization that there is one less person in this world to love you. I confess, it's gotten me a little down. But since I am adamant in keeping with the general theme of this blog, I will highlight one of my favorite scenes of the book.
It starts:
“Once upon a time New York had a sixth borough.”
It ends:
“The children of New York lay on their backs, body to body, filling every inch of the park, as if it had been designed for them and that moment. The fireworks sprinkled down, dissolving in the air just before they reached the ground, and the children were pulled one millimeter and one second at a time, into Manhattan and adulthood. By the time the park found its current resting place, every single one of the children had fallen asleep, and the park was a mosaic of their dreams. Some hollered out, some smiled unconsciously, some were perfectly still.”
That's not true. It really ends with Oskar questioning the authenticity of the story and a shrug of his shoulders from Dad. It's nice to be reminded to hold onto moments of faith, not because what you believe in is logical or supported by empirical evidence. Sometimes the wonder is enough of a reason.
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