Literary fiction is not easy.
Not for the writer, and not for the reader.
At times, it asks for a certain kind of patience—perhaps even a quiet sacrifice—from both sides. The intention is never to exhaust the reader. But in a world where everything is consumed so quickly, the things that truly belong to us remain the same: pure emotions, truth, honesty… and the most unfiltered form of literature—ourselves.
With this book, I did not promise you an easy story.
But I can promise you this:
You may find something of yourself within it.
Moments that make you pause and reflect on your life, your past, and the people around you.
Anger, pain, resentment, compassion, and tears…
All of these belong to us. And no one can take them away.
When you read Frank’s story, you will see that I did not present him as someone to admire. Because in real life, even those we admire are flawed. That is what it means to be human—to be imperfect.
You may find yourself loving him, or struggling to.
But one thing is certain: Frank would never want your pity.
And yet, even he was able to let something through the cracks within him—
because of a child.
This book does not promise you comfort.
It may break your heart.
It may confuse you.
It may move you to tears, and at times, leave you unsettled.
But in the end, it will leave you alone with the most honest parts of yourself.
And perhaps, you will never look at the people in your life the same way again.
Hold on to literary fiction.
Because it is you.
And you are part of it.
With love,
Lydia Moreau
Bir Cevap Yazın