A nine-year-old Oskar Schell steers New York City on a quest to find the secrets of a mysterious key and its connection to his father, who died in the collapse of the World Trade Center on 09/11. Since his father’s death, Oskar struggles with insomnia, panic attacks, and depression. He often describes the feeling of depression as wearing heavy boots and deals with this by giving himself bruises. Read more
Every year, without fail, I scribble down in a notebook with The Little Prince on the cover all the books I’ve read. It’s become a ritual of sorts—one part record-keeping, one part quiet joy. Some people track their steps, I track my stories.
Whenever a book leaves a mark on me, the kind that stays with you like the smell of rain on warm pavement, I add a little heart next to the title. If I think it’s something my daughter might love one day, I write the letter J beside it—J for her name, for joy, for the future reader I’m secretly raising under my wing.
I devoured The Goldfinch with an eagerness I didn’t expect. At first, I had my doubts—1108 pages?! (yes, the Litera edition is no joke.) I thought there was no way I’d make it to the end. But then that small painting pulled me in like a secret passageway, and from there… well, let’s just say I barely slept, barely ate, and ignored most adult responsibilities for almost two weeks.
Donna Tartt’s third novel, published in 2013 and winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2014, is more than just a literary success—it’s a hypnotic story about beauty, grief, survival, and fate. It’s about the inexplicable ways in which a painting, a person, or a fleeting moment can shape a life forever.
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I’m in the middle of a book about marriage—borrowed from a friend, like many of life’s biggest questions. Marriage has always stirred something in me. Not just curiosity, but a kind of restless wonder. Among all the existential questions that occasionally camp out in my mind, a few wear wedding rings.
I still remember a moment from my teenage years—one of those imprints that time doesn’t blur. My mother, with her unshakable realism, said to me: “Every marriage looks perfect from the outside. But once you’re inside, there’s no guarantee that your home will ever feel truly peaceful again. Arguments creep in when you least expect them—usually over children or money.” Read more