I have loved, dearly, many books, of many genres.
I have felt the deep regret when a favorite book ends, the sad goodbye to wonderful characters that have somehow interlaced in your own space and time. I have rampaged to find any and every other book written by authors that have entranced me. I’ve been uplifted, angered, brought to tears, tension, laughter and joy, fallen in love with the way some authors shape their sentences and finely pluck their words into something superb, marveled at story lines, looked forward with vibrant anticipation to “next books”, learned volumes about different times and places and people, and been grateful for the experience, even if I hated to see it go.
But never have I felt actual withdrawal. Until ~ half reluctantly (because it’s my nature to shy away from any commercialized “hot new thing”) ~ I came across Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games series. Ms. Collins just may be a genius.
This is not to say my other favorite authors are not as penetrating, not at all. They are completely remarkable in their own right. But as a series, The Hunger Games captivated me in such a way … I can only think to call it spellbinding.
Now I understand why my daughter and her friends clutched their books WHILE walking into the movie theatre. Of course at the time, I thought, “Girls, girls, aren’t you so cute. It’s wonderful to see you feel so strongly about reading! But you can leave the book in the car, really, it’s ok.” Now, I know what they felt. (Although I will not be clutching my copies in a movie theatre, I swear!)
The odd thing is, it all ended in a pretty satisfying way. One or two things I might have changed, but it didn’t leave you hanging ~ well, just a tiny bit, but certainly not on a cliff.
It was simply brilliant. Perfectly paced, engagingly written fiction that seemed frighteningly plausible and possible. It was brutal but compassionate. I can’t wait to see the movie… because I haven’t had enough, and that’s all that’s left to do.