Instead of sleeping last night, I tried to think of THE book that makes me sad. Unlike Terpsichore, I do not cry over art. Naturally there are some exceptions to this, but they are few and far between. I cried at my violin teacher’s recital because he played the Debussy sonata, which was a favorite of a mentor’s (who died suddenly). I cry when I hear Final Countdown (the friend who played that at his senior recital to commemorate graduation died 119 days later. )
So if we count the book that makes me sad to be the book that made me cry, the winner is The Hiding Place. Corrie Ten Boom and her already elderly family hid Jews in Harlem until they were caught and imprisoned. They were clock makers and had a crazy house made up of two houses with an insane staircase between. The floors of the houses didn’t match up.
Oh, the danger and the courage of the first few chapters, and then they are carted away. When the beloved and aged Father Ten Boom (at least 80) died in prison and the man beloved of his city has an anonymous grave. His daughters heard he had died by word of mouth, passed from cell to cell the one day they were unguarded. Hitler’s birthday.
I cried when Father died.
But honestly, The Hiding Place is not the book that makes me sad. In the end, it is a story of faith and forgiveness and the grace of God.
The book that makes me sad…I only read it once. It is called The Marble Faun by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I can’t talk about it. It makes me so sad and I’m at work!