Every once in a while, I read a book that reminds me of the importance of words, language, and communication. There's a shared communion in the reading of any book, a partaking of another person's experience, be it fiction or fact.
I'm half way through 'The Idiot Boy Who Flew' and I find myself purposefully slowing down, as I do with the books I love, in order to fully digest Reid's language, a combination of casual and poetic. Reid achieves a glorious and effortless eloquence which is sweeping me along as I turn the pages.
As the cover suggests, I feel embraced and transported. With each finished chapter, I feel as though I've been to the places Reid so lovingly shapes and articulates with his words, fueling my wonder and imagination with every turn of every page.
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