I am an avid reader. I have a top twenty favorite book list which I revise occasionally. As I was reading "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle," I decided this book would replace whatever book was in, oh, maybe 5th place.

What a story. While I am a woman of an advanced age, and have lived a rather worldly and urban sort of life, I have a dog. The writing, the descriptions, the complex and convoluted plot, the characters, were so superbly rendered, I often felt a physical response to a twist or turn, the walking of the fence with Gar, or countless mornings with the dogs, the touches of the withers, the exquisite wonder of muteness and communication, the scariness of that Impala. Ai yi yi, I could not stop reading. When I did stop, to eat or take a shower, I was jittery about getting back to the book. In fact, for 4 or 5 days, reading was what I elected to do. I asked myself, how can someone write like this, to envelope me into this story? To rope me in?

About half way into the story, I realized that I was IN the story. I cannot recall this ever happening to me before in literature. I was Edgar. I was inside him, seeing the world through his eyes, trying to interpret the last semi-words of father, finding unexplainable items in the grass, uncomfortable with Claude, one with the dogs, especially Almondine. Oh, wow, Almondine, and I became Edgar and dog, savior and saved, poet and grass, confused and seeking.

Well, what I'm trying to say is that I just got into the story and when Edgar's heart beat, mine did. When Edgar stroked Almondine, I did. I watched when Edgar watched. I ran the dogs, I searched the mow, I ran away, I found Henry, I bathed Tinder's paw. I was IN THE STORY.

The me person outside the story was amazed at this.

I was swept along, knowing in my heart that some kind of justice would be done, some kind of truth would be revealed; and especially, the dogs would prevail. Trudy was the thread.

The porch light. For me, that was the final fulcrum upon which the truth would be revealed. I am not allowed to tell you the story, but at the end, I could not believe after all the beauty, the exquisite details of land and love and family and treachery that it would all just poof, burn.

I cannot recall a book more extraordinary that took a wrong turn. Oh, yes, it was probably the way life is, and so now I must mourn, but, in fact, in this book, with Edgar, I wanted a little justice, a little truth.

I am shocked that this book has affected me so much. I can't believe that after this lofty, etherial, gorgeous world has been created, that in the end, it is after all, just ether, just meaningless.

I am devastated. Can you imagine a person writing such a statement about a book?