Like most writers, I read constantly, voraciously, inhaling books the way I scarfed down bags of Red Vines when I was a kid. I briefly savor the last pages of one book, ready to move on to the next offering on my shelf. Some books grab me so that I don’t want to shift loyalty from one author, one title, one world, to the next. Anthony Doerr’s Memory Wall is the rare book that I could almost begin again, start to finish, minutes after I completed the first reading. I will hold off because I read a library copy and want to buy my own Memory Wall so that I can underline the gorgeous writing and meaningful phrases. Terrance Rafferty’s words in The New York Times give a better literary review of the book than I could. Let me just say that Doerr’s book transported me to other times and places, and gave me the privilege of living in people’s heads and hearts in a way that helped me see and understand both our differences and the ways we share the human condition. Doerr’s characters are now part of my life in the way old friends and relatives’ stories are intertwined with my own story. That’s about as much as any book can do for the reader fortunate enough to be touched by a gifted storyteller and wordsmith’s work.
