I can divide my life in chapters according to the books that i’ve cherished the most. During childhood, there was The Little Prince, I marveled at him. I felt I understood him, understood him in that way that adults never could. Then, there was Dear Zoe, which I held on dearly, like one holds on to a darling friend. After that, there was The Book Thief. Not many other books made me feel so many feelings, and it was my constant companion in a time when I had little else. And now, there’s this unbearable lightness. I’m still not finished with it, but this is going so well. I have a real good feeling in my heart that this is the beginning of the next chapter.