Khanh the Killjoy

Forbidden - Tabitha Suzuma And Only to Deceive - Tasha Alexander Where the Red Fern Grows - Wilson Rawls Charlotte's Web - Garth Williams, E.B. White, Kate DiCamillo When He Was Wicked - Julia Quinn

30 Day Book Challenge, Day 22: A Book That Makes You Cry

  +   Also known to many as: THE FIRST BOOKS THAT EVER MADE US CRY. I was sobbing while we were reading Where the Red Fern Grows out loud in 5th grade class. And man, 10-year old Khanh was not happy when Charlotte died. Although I would seriously have killed any of her hundreds of children.




Also, was I the only one who didn't really care much about Bridge to Terabithia? I mean, someone died, womp womp. Yeah, it was sad, but I've read better. Meh.


When I was a child, it didn't take much to make me cry. These days, it takes a whole fucking lot to get any emotions out of me, and I can't remember too many books I've read as an adult that have made me shed a tear. There are, of course, exceptions, and these are the books that stand out in actually making me sob unashamedly.


Ugly crying at its finest. Once I picked up this book, there was just no stopping. I read all through the night, and found myself wracking with sobs, crying into my pillow as the sun rose.


This series isn't meant to be sad, but the background of the first book is pretty heartbreaking. Our heroine is very young. She married at 19, and was widowed but a few months after (and frankly, wasn't too saddened by her husband's death, because she was too young to fall in love, and barely knew her husband at that). She was saddened, but there was no true grief until she found her husbands' diaries in the midst of an ongoing investigation. It is a bad idea to fall in love with one's dead husband.


This is the scene that made me cry for about 15 minutes straight. Emily has been reading her late husbands' memoirs, in which he has been recounting the day he proposed to her. She barely remembers that day, it was overwhelmed by her overbearing mother and Emily's own desire to just escape her mother's grasp and have her own life. Her husband's memories of the event are quite different:


"I thought I would go mad with desire when she presented that perfect ivory cheek for me to kiss. Had her blasted mother the courtesy to leave us alone for even a moment, I would have taken the opportunity to fully explore every inch of her rosebud lips. For that, I am afraid, I shall have to wait."


I closed the book and placed it on the table beside me. For a moment it felt as if I had been reading a particularly satisfactory novel in which the heroine had won the love of her hero. But I was the heroine, and the hero was dead, dead before I had even the remotest interest in him. I started to cry, softly at first, then with all-consuming sobs that I could hardly control. I went back to Philip's desk and opened the drawer from which I had taken his journal. In it I had also placed a photograph he had given to me shortly after our engagement. I pried it out of its elaborate frame, clutched it to my chest, and ran from the library, up the stairs to my bedroom.


A good Julia Quinn book (and there have sadly been none for awhile) is a thing of beauty. This is one of the Bridgerton Family series, and probably the best out of the 8 or so books featuring the family siblings. Michael has been in love with a woman since he first saw her, and it's just not meant to be, because that woman is meant to be his beloved cousin's wife. Said cousin dies, and thereafter lies the guilt of surviving, of inheriting his title, of desiring the widow. I don't summarize it well at all, but this book is just so well written.


“Why?” he asked again, this time with increased volume as he turned around to face her. “Why? It’s because I love you, damn me to hell. Because I’ve always loved you. Because I loved you when you were with John, and I loved you when I was in India, and God only knows I don’t deserve you, but I love you, anyway.”

Francesca sagged against the door.

“How’s that for a witty little joke?” he mocked. “I love you. I love you, my cousin’s wife. I love you, the one woman I can never have. I love you,Francesca Bridger-ton Stirling, who—”