The Book of Lost Things-- John Connolly

Growth cannot happen without loss. Beauty cannot occur without pain. The Book of Lost Things is a story about both, and it resonates with those heartbreaking echoes of familiar tones, like a long-forgotten lullaby that is somehow darker than when you first heard it from a loved one’s softly-parted lips. It is the story of a boy for whom everything once simple and good has become twisted and cruel and corrupted. Where even the tales which end in happiness and with good triumphing over evil become the enemies themselves, for they are shown to have been lies. In this world, this small boy is alone, truly. He is aided by those who selflessly die both for him and because of him. He must trust those whom others would scorn and turn away from as perverted and abnormal—not wanting to accept what they know lies inside of them, too.

It is a beautiful story because it is painful to read. It is frightening, to see how that which we regard as childlike and wonderful and innocent can be so distorted and ugly. It hurts to see those we have come to admire and care for die in painful, horrid ways. It hurts to see the effect such horrid betrayals of childhood have on a boy who is forced to grow up too soon. It is terrifying, because there is some part deep within us which is not certain this will have a happy ending at all, because it is not a children’s book nor a fairy-tale, but a story of growing up and growing past the point of innocence which closes behind the frightened child-adult like the thorny vines in Sleeping Beauty’s twisted castle.

But it is heart-wrenchingly lovely, because this boy—who carries the hopes and hurts and love of all who journey with him—moves past the confusion, betrayal, lies, and loneliness to come out the other side—quieter, sadder, but more beautiful and full for having seen death and pain. This small, fragile innocent is not struck down and withered, nor corrupted and twisted, but instead refined and tempered into a rod of hope and strength which shines in a dark and ugly world. This broken boy succeeds where so many before him have failed, and there is a part of every one of us that rejoices in that victory, because it gives us hope that maybe we too can succeed in such a way, against such cruel and evil, hopeless beings.

And in the end, the Woodsman—the faithful, insurmountable, undefeatable Woodsman—welcomes him home as one of his children. The Woodsman—whose grief and love and selfless protection produce an ache of longing deep within each of us—is shown to be the kindest and wisest of all. He safeguards those who have gone before, those who have become lost, and holds them close and tight until they are found again.

It truly is a book of lost things—lost childhood, lost innocence, lost preconceptions, lost hope, loss—but in the end, it is also a book about found things. And that makes it all the more beautiful.

Read it. I dare you.