I was just writing about my choice for the Best of August post for Bookriot, a joint post by all the contributors, and I came upon a passage that reminded me why I write.
I opened the book, The Illusion of Separateness, to a random place and was promptly proved to have chosen the right book. It really is a great book, one that I suggest you buy now for every reader in your family and give them for Christmas. They will love you for it. I read it almost exactly a month ago and had almost forgotten how truly beautiful the writing is.
The passage that I opened to is the following. Note, I opened the book randomly.
After Philip and I die, there will be no one left to remember Grandpa John and then no one left to remember us. None of this will have happened, except that it’s happening right now.
There will be no Amelia, yet here I am.
I wonder how our bodies will change as we get old. I wonder how we’ll feel about things that haven’t happened to us yet.
When we get back to our cottage in Sag Harbor, I’m going to invite all our friends to a summer party, and I’m going to laugh, and put my arms around them. And then I’m going to lead Philip up to the bed by the hand, finding the candles by heat, and blowing them out one by one, as we, one day, will be vanquished with a last puff and then nothing at all – nothing but the fragrance of our lives in the world, as on a hand that once held flowers.
What did you think?