"I am Malala" by Malala Yousafzai and Christina Lamb

I would like Malala to be one of my students. She's a smart, passionate, and determined teenage girl whose spunk and courage would make her an interesting student to teach. If I had Malala I'd have her sign up for Model UN and recommend that she join Debate. Yet ironically, those extracurricular activities, while respectable additions to any college application, fall far short of what Malala has done.

Malala is the sixteen-year-old Pakistani girl who survived after being shot in the head by the Taliban in 2012. She is not on a Model UN delegation or a debate team. But she has won numerous awards, spoken before the actual UN, given interviews on national news networks all over the world and confronted world leaders on their failures to protect the lives and rights of Pakistanis. In October she even told Obama straight up that his drone attacks were fueling terrorism! In a recent interview on CBS, Malala said that she's not afraid of the continuing threats against her life and the perils that face her in the future. She's not afraid of the Taliban, but rather, they are afraid of her. (See full interview here)

The Taliban is afraid. Taliban militants are afraid of providing education for girls because they know that women with an education can be a powerful force for change. Women who break out of purdah (seclusion) pose a threat to the extremist vision of Islam. Women who are given rights and an education may choose to pursue a career rather than a life of endless childbearing. They may have opinions, they may require the men to compromise. They may demand property rights, divorce rights, and control over their bodies. All of this is frightening to the Taliban. In fact, it has been frightening to men throughout the centuries. The oppression of women is nothing new. The battle that Malala is fighting is as old as civilization, but today, she has some powerful forces on her side. Centuries ago the entire world was dominated by men. Today, women in the Western world have a voice (and a bank account). I believe that reading Malala's story reminds us to join in the fight. We need to ally with this courageous teenager.

Of course, let's not forget, there is another important element to this story -- the parents. Some have criticized Malala's parents, and particularly her father (a Pakistani education leader) for essentially putting their daughter in the line of fire. On the one hand, I can understand this criticism. By allowing their daughters to attend school, many Muslim parents are putting their children at risk. Yet if they do not send them to school, what is the alternative? Would they prefer to have their daughters alive but illiterate? A life of economic dependence on a forced marriage partner? A life dictated by men and devoid of rights? I think that is a greater peril. That is no life. I applaud these parents for recognizing that though their daughters may be taking a risk to their physical well-being, having life is far more than being able to breathe. To truly be alive we need to be able to think, to read, to dream, to choose. I admire Malala's parents for being courageous enough to allow their daughter to take risks. The Yousafzai family shares in the vision for girls' education and they are willing to make sacrifices. I find that commendable. 

After reading this book I am reminded that my female students can come to school every morning with virtually no threat of being attacked. In some parts of the world girls are putting their lives on the line every morning when they step outside the door to go to school. Malala's story reminds me to be thankful for what we have in this country and also for how far we have come. When I look at my classes I see a diverse palate of faces. White, Asian, Indian, African-American, and Middle-Eastern all come together in one school building, sitting side by side. They play together on sports teams, act in the school plays, become debate partners, and even date one another. I know there are still racial and ethnic barriers, but so much of what I see on a day-to-day basis would not have happened in this country a mere 60 years ago. Fortunately there were nine courageous children in Little Rock, Arkansas who demanded integration. Children in Birmingham Alabama were thrown in jail, attacked by dogs, and sprayed down with fire hoses all for demanding equal rights and an equal education. James Meredith demanded entrance to the University of Mississippi. Countless other college students were doused in ketchup, thrown in jail, and even killed for simply demanding their rights. That was only two generations ago. This gives me hope. It gives me hope for the girls in Malala's hometown and all over the world, who are being kept out of school purely on the basis of their gender. Maybe it is possible to change centuries-old cultural traditions in only one generation. 

The Taliban has every reason to be afraid. Malala is raising the ire of educated women around the world. In doing so, she is raising awareness, raising money, and expanding education. The Malala Fund is sending 40 girls to school in Pakistan's Swat Valley and is currently expanding its mission into Syria. I believe expanding education to girls will slowly change the social fabric of the Middle East, and one day, will make those Obama drones truly unnecessary. 

I hope and pray that Malala Yousafzai will create a legacy. I believe her influence will raise up other Malalas, and one day education will kill the Taliban. 

If you read the book and would like to donate, visit malalafund.org

Hebrews 12:1-17

About six months ago I took it into my head to run a half marathon. I can't say exactly why. It was a mixture of pride, a need to fit in, a desire to eat more ice cream, and an assortment of other ill-conceived motives which disintegrated once training became hard. I about gave up. Getting out of bed at 6:30 am to run 8 miles on a Saturday requires a willpower motivated by something stronger than sheer pride. Yet soon, a deeper, truer, motivation took root. It grew slowly and took shape over months and weeks of long runs. It was a motivation to reach a new milestone, to push my body out of its comfort zone, and to prove to my 16-year-old self that I CAN run. 

Yesterday I completed my half marathon. As I rounded the last bend and saw the people standing on the bridge at the finish, it wasn't status, bragging rights, or ice cream that I was thinking about at that moment. I was thinking of that girl that used to struggle to run a lap on the track. That girl who dreaded the bi-annual gym class miler and the epic humiliation that came along with it. That girl was me. And yet, that same girl was sprinting toward the finish line on the last .1 mile of a 13.1 mile race. That thought is what got my burning legs across that line, and it got them there faster than in all my training runs. Not only had I completed a feat that I could have only dreamed of ten years ago, but I ended up in the top third of women finishers. 

Now, that's the story of the glorious ending. However, the physical transformation of a distance runner is, by its very nature is not a single moment of victory over gluttony, laziness, or weakness. Transformation is not crossing the finish line. It is many, many mornings of long, hot, sweaty runs on muggy summer days. It is setting the alarm clock earlier and earlier. It is choosing bran flakes over donuts. For me, transformation also meant popping blisters on my toes and feeling relief when the ugly callouses finally formed. Transformation involved periods where the heat and exhaustion made me sick (I'll spare you the details on that one). It required money toward shoes and appropriate gear. It left me hobbling up and down the many stairs in my townhouse. And it probably resulted in my swallowing more than a few bugs. What's more, the work doesn't end now that I've crossed the finish line. Next weekend, I'll be up early, lacing up those sneakers and heading out on the trail. 

When I set out to achieve this goal, little did I know that the greatest transformation of it all would be a spiritual one. Running for 2+ hours every weekend has given me ample time to learn about my human weakness and God's ultimate strength. A couple weeks ago when my Pastor read Hebrews 12:1 these words resonated with me as they never have before: 

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us..."

There is something about running that just makes one understand this analogy better. When I come up the last hill of my run I know what running with endurance is all about. I really get laying aside every weight and sin that clings closely. The reality just continues for me as I read on in Hebrews 12: "For at the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant" (vs. 11) and perhaps most poignantly for me, "strengthen your weak knees..." (vs. 12)

Obviously this passage of Scripture is an analogy to the Christian life. But it is through running that this passage has come alive. In our Christian life we are surrounded by a great crowd of witnesses, much like runners on the W&OD are surrounded by other exercise fanatics every Saturday and Sunday morning. Though I run alone, I always feel a sense of goodwill and camaraderie among the runners on the trail.  I've had encouragement from strangers more than a few times. We all know and understand what the other is going through. We know the lows of pain and the soaring highs from those endorphins surging through our bodies.  While Hebrews 12 in particular applies to Biblical figures, two hour runs give me time to thank God for the "great cloud of witnesses" in my own life - my family and the other faithful believers in my hometown, and my wonderful, mission-oriented, church here in NoVA. 

I've also learned about endurance. That last mile is tough. The sun is up. The heat is rising. Pain surges through my legs. By the last hill my strength is gone. But on every long run, I come to a point where prayer alone keeps me going. I pray for a second wind, I pray for endurance. When I read Hebrews 12 now I think of that last rise where I am running uphill and across a bridge. With many miles behind and 3/4 mile to go, I'm silently praying: "God, help me, help me up this hill." God comes through. That bridge has become my "ebenezer" - my stone of help. That bridge reminds me that God is there. My endurance in life and in running comes from Him. 

And what about those "weak knees?" My left knee to be precise. The thing I have grown to love about running is that it reminds me of my weakness. As I push myself harder and longer, I begin to realize the limits of my body.  In getting to that place of weakness there is something overwhelmingly good about having nothing to rely on but God's strength. God's strength alone helps me to run through pain, both literally and figuratively. 

These long runs have given me ample time for prayer and reflection, time that I try not to waste. I have even come to find joy in the moments where prayer takes over in the heat of pain and exhaustion. I have begun a transformation into a Hebrews 12 runner, but much like my physical transformation, my spiritual transformation is not complete. It is a lifelong commitment that relies on continued training. So for now I'll continue meeting with the "founder and perfecter" of my faith every Saturday morning. 

Ireland by Frank Delaney

My husband and I plan on traveling to Ireland next summer, so I have begun my preparatory literary tour. This book was the first to come up in the library catalog when I typed "Ireland," and thus it become the first of several books about Ireland that I plan to read before leaving on our trip.

Frank Delaney's Ireland fuses history with legend, present with past, and old age with the inquisitiveness of youth. It is a book about heritage - the heritage of an entire people and a single family. It is the story of a young boy named Ronan whose life is radically altered by one of the last itinerant storytellers to traverse the hills and valleys of Ireland. The story begins in the 1950s when an elderly storyteller happens upon Ronan's house and asks for lodging in exchange for stories. The storyteller stays with Ronan's family for several nights and captivates the town with his telling of Irish folklore. When the storyteller abruptly leaves, giving no address and no other contact information, Ronan is devastated. Yet the storyteller knows that this young boy, so enraptured by the tales of Ireland, will grow up to be a storyteller in his own right. Throughout Ronan's teenage and young adult years he seeks to find the storyteller. Though the storyteller leave clues for Ronan along the way, the old man's whereabouts remain cloaked in mystery. Yet throughout these years of searching, Ronan travels the Irish countryside and learns the history of his land. Sometimes he hears the storyteller's own tales, recounted secondhand by a farmer or tavern-keeper, sometimes he learns the history from other voices, like those of his scholarly professor. All the while Ronan is not only piecing together the history of his beloved country, but he is also gaining insights into his own rich and scandalous heritage. And yet, Ronan's quest for the storyteller is ever haunted by the fear that he will never reach him, that the old man will die before Ronan can learn the trade. Why, you might ask, does the storyteller remain so elusive? Well, to find that answer you'll just have to read the book!

Delaney alternates between Ronan's story and the tales of Ireland's history. The history told here is a mixture of folklore, personal stories, and memory. To me, this is the only way to tell Ireland's history. Ireland is such a rich and mythical place that legends and fairy tales must form an integral part of its past. For centuries before the Irish were literate, their history was passed down through storytellers who brought the past alive through their captivating and sometimes fantastical tales. Thus, we the readers, must throw textbook history aside and embark on this journey with imagination in tow.  The storyteller provides us with some facts, some myth, and many riveting stories of the people whose ordinary lives have integrally shaped their homeland. He transports us back to the Neolithic era, when tribal peoples roamed the green island amidst fairies, spirits and other mythical creatures of old. He will take us through the age of Viking invasions and the coming of St. Patrick, then up to the Norman invasions and the Great Potato Famine. The Normans, who came to Ireland via Britain initiated the slow seizure of Irish political independence. However, the Irish spirit remained alive and free, fueled by the stories of their forefathers. Their gallant fight against Britain brings the Southern counties out from under her thumb in the early 20th century, leaving the Northern counties seething even to this day. By the end of the book we have met kings and queens, warriors and monks, landlords and peasants. Thus, it not a top down history or even a bottom-up history. It is a collection of stories - stories that encapsulate all the allure that Ireland has to offer.

This is not a textbook, and by no means should it be considered a full account of Ireland's history. Yet, legends and stories allow us to really understand the character of the Irish people. They are not all descendants of the early tribal natives, but rather a fiery mix of native Irish, redheaded Vikings, and Normans. They've fought famine, and they've fought Britain. Both were strong foes, capable of winning many battles, but never capable of eradicating the Irish spirit. Delaney's book, in many ways, is the history of the oppressed, for Ireland is a land always dominated by stronger civilizations. While most of history is written by the victors, the stories of the Irish themselves are stories written and told by the conquered, passed down through the years and now told to their children, who still see their land divided, their religions at odds, and the turbulent forces of division ever-looming.

For one who is used to reading rather dry history texts full of facts and dates, this was an exciting journey for both the intellectual and imaginative facets of my mind. I felt that Delaney's book a beautifully written, fascinating start to my literary tour!

The Dog Who Danced by Susan Wilson

Here's another sappy dog book for all of you pet lovers out there! As I've said before, if you don't love dogs, don't bother reading this book. But for those whose heart belong to a furry bundle of enthusiasm, here's another book to give you those special warm fuzzies that only dog-owners can feel.

The Dog Who Danced is the story of a little lost dog who finds his way into the hearts of some equally lost humans.  Mack, a gray-haired, blue-eyed Shetland Sheepdog has been Justine's companion for years. His loyalty has sustained her through many uncertain and painful experiences.  When Justine got Mack she came alive again after years of languishing in her past regrets. Not only was Mack her faithful friend through many lonely days and nights, but he also became her dancing partner when Justine tapped into his keen intellect and entered him into Canine Freestyle competitions. This little dancing dog was closer than blood to Justine, but when her dysfunctional human family calls her home, a series of freak events separates the dancing partners, putting Mack on the street. Within a few hours this beloved friend becomes a helpless stray.

While Justine is trying to find her dog, Mack wanders into the life of an elderly couple living with their own heartache and regret. When Ed and Alice Parmalee bring Mack into their dreary home, this loyal, unassuming dog does what dogs do best - he brings joy into a two very joyless lives. But as Ed and Alice slowly open their hearts to this little Sheltie, Justine comes closer and closer to tracking down her dancing partner. If Justine's path leads her back to her little dog, her gain will truly be Ed and Alice's loss.

The Dog Who Danced is another heartwarming dog book that makes me appreciate the dogs who are and have been my loyal friends through life's turbulence. Even though my life doesn't have an ounce of the drama of Justine's, I still can relate to that inexplicable happiness that a dog can bring on the crappiest of days. I'm so blessed to be the mom to a sweet little rescue dog who, despite all her phobias and odd quirks, has become a very beloved (and extremely spoiled) member of our family. I prayed for months that God would bring us the right dog. Of all the homeless dogs in the world, I'm convinced that our little Cockapoo was just the right one for us. And we were just the right family for her. I thank God every day for bringing the three of us together. I firmly believe that in matters of acquiring dogs and husbands there is no coincidence. It's all Providence.

The Mothers by Jennifer Gilmore

Sometimes it is good to read a book that thoroughly exercises your powers of empathy. That was precisely the kind of mind-exercise that I had to practice while reading The Mothers. I heard the book reviewed on NPR, and as usual I put it on my reading list as soon as I got home (since I'm often in the car while listening to these reviews). NPR has never steered me wrong in my reading material and I can't say The Mothers was an exception, although it was difficult for me to really resonate with empathy for the characters.

The Mothers is a novel about a couple going through the adoption process. What really caused me to add this book to my reading list was not so much that I'm particularly interested in adopting, (or even having a child right now for that matter) but that the book discussion on NPR veered into conversation on how the adoption process causes people to confront their racial and socioeconomic biases. For instance, one of the first steps that every prospective adoptive parent goes through is to figure out what race of child they want to adopt. That dictates everything. It dictates where you adopt from, the number of potential birthmothers, and in some cases even the cost (i.e. black babies are cheaper.) I found this interesting from a social science perspective. No matter how much we talk about tolerance and equality or assert that race doesn't matter, truthfully, it does. This is just one example of the so-called "politically-incorrect" decisions that adoption brings into play. There are many others.

While that's what drew me to the book, those "politically incorrect" decisions really weren't the primary focus of the story. The novel details the adoption journey of Jessie and Ramon, a pushing-forty couple who have been unable to have children. Restrictions and red tape keep them out of the international adoption market, so they opt for a domestic "open" adoption. I learned that open adoption is one in which the adoptive family keeps in contact with the birthmother throughout the child's life. Once Jessie and Ramon make their decision and start down the road toward an open adoption, they find it an uphill battle at every turn. First, they basically need to "sell" themselves to potential birthmothers. This means designing a portfolio introducing themselves as a couple, highlighting their positive qualities and downplaying the negatives (i.e. the fact that they live in a tiny Manhattan apartment). Jessie and Ramon also have to decide whether or not they are comfortable with a child whose mother used drugs or alcohol during the first trimester. While this opens up many more potential birthmoms, is it worth the risk? Are they prepared to parent special needs child?

The Mothers is primarily Jessie's story. As a middle aged woman, surrounded by friends and family pushing strollers and negotiating daycare she feels left out. She doesn't have anything to talk about with her girlfriends anymore.  As she sees pictures of newborns on Facebook and children on the playground, her longings for a child get stronger. Potential birthmothers string her along, but ultimately fall through in the end. All the while Jessie's desperation grows.

This is where I really have trouble with empathy. I don't understand that. I'm still at the stage of seeing children in the grocery store and thinking, "Whew, glad I don't have to deal with THAT!" I'd also like to hear the husband's side of the story. He wanted a child too, but did not seem as desperate as Jessie. Why is it always the mother portrayed as the one yearning for kids? I know for a fact that it doesn't always happen that way.

The book also opened my eyes to another aspect of the adoption process. I'd always pictured adoption as being a rather straightforward process in which children are basically lining up at the door for a good home. (kind of like puppies at the shelter) Of course, I've always heard through the grapevine that it's a long and arduous process, but I figured that just meant there was a lot of paperwork and fees. I'd never really considered the fact that in this country at least, it's the other way around - prospective parents are lining up at the door to get a child, trying to sell themselves to sixteen year old girls. That's ironic. Teenage girls, crack addicts and alcoholics ultimately control the fate of so many lives. Internationally, it may be a different story. Certainly there are orphanages filled with children, but Russia has basically shut down adoption to the United States, China has a lot of restrictions regarding prospective parents (i.e. you can't adopt Chinese babies if you have certain health conditions, etc), and political and ethnic turmoil in Africa make it often very difficult to procure a child from that continent. In short, adoption is a good and noble thing. I remain convinced of that. It can be done and many families in my church attest to this. There is nothing quite as special on Child Dedication Sunday as seeing a young multiracial family with an adopted child. But adoption is not a process for the faint of heart. One adoptive mother I talked to in the church nursery recently said that adoption was in some ways just as difficult as pregnancy and giving birth - just in a different kind of way. The moral of the story? Either way you do it, having a child is painful, risky, and a heck of a lot of work.

In short, when and if I'm ever ready, I'm pretty convinced I'm going to just order a custom-made baby from Amazon. Hopefully it'll be eligible for Prime shipping.

Rurally Screwed by Jessie Knadler

When I picked up the book Rurally Screwed from the library the other day I thought this was going to be a light summer read. I figured it would just be a humorous glimpse into the life of a city-girl gone country. When I told my husband that the premise of the book was about a girl from New York City who falls in love with a cowboy, he pretty much verbalized what I'd been thinking all along: "That sounds like it won't work out." But sometimes people's bad ideas make great summer reading, so I plowed forward.

What I did not expect was a genuine love story between a woman who is remarkably similar to me and a guy who is really, truly not a jerk. (Nice guys have been in short supply among my summer reads) The author, Jessie Knadler, chronicles her journey from the yoga studios and bars of Manhattan to Lexington, VA where she currently resides as a mom and chicken farmer.  The first part of the book lived up to my initial expectations of light summer reading. Jessie was the epitome of a trendy, urban 30-something with a fast-paced career, a solid income, and an identity crisis. She gave all that up when she met Jake while on assignment in Montana. Jake was the complete opposite. He was a horseman, a soldier, a country-music fanatic, and a Republican. A few months later Jessie was moving to Lexington, Virginia and helping her new husband build a massive portable chicken coop.

In the early years of their marriage Jessie thought she'd solve her identity crisis by making a 180 degree transformation into the Martha Stewart of country living. Far away from journalism and yoga classes, she now devoted her days to growing her own food, making artisan bread, raising chickens, brewing beer, and canning pretty much everything. She was the goddess of country living. And yet, she kept comparing herself to her husband, feeling that she fell short of his strength, his work ethic, his emotional stability. While he encouraged her and cheered her on, she tore herself down. She felt inferior for staying home canning all day. She questioned her choice of a very traditional marriage and retrogressive role as a housewife. She stressed out when she friends suggested that she should start having children. All the while she secretly compared herself to the "sexy horsewoman" down the road - the one who she feared Jake should have married. And Jake, the silent, stoic country cowboy never communicated how deeply he admired his wife - until the day she hightailed it back to New York City.

Now, since the book jacket says that Jessie is currently living with her husband and daughter in Lexington, VA, I don't feel too guilty about letting on that Jessie does not stay in New York City. She does not fit there either. During her time in the country the city trends have shifted. Everybody in NYC has been gripped by the back-to-nature lifestyle. They are raising chickens on the roof and growing tomatoes on the patio. But Jessie is struck by the fact that they are doing it all wrong. They busy are buying expensive artisan pickles, while Jessie's homemade ones sit unopened in the pantry!

This is about where Jessie's story nearly brought me to tears. She has spent her life trying to fit herself into some socially prescribed box. Neither the trendy urban box, nor the organic, country housewife box fit perfectly. She has nearly given up on her marriage because she couldn't fit into the box that she had built for herself. Jessie must accept that she does not have to earn her husband's love. Jake, she realizes, loved her all along. Yes, he enjoyed her pickles, but he was happy just to have her.  She drove back to Lexington, made up with Jake, and went to McDonalds.

Jessie writes, "I finally understood that identity comes once you stop searching for it, once you stop looking to conceptual thought for definitions of who you are or think you should be." But how does one stop this cycle of selfish thinking? The answer: have a baby. With a baby, Jessie says, "I was finally too busy to think about myself."

I don't can. But I've frozen about 30+ pounds of local fruits and vegetables. I have homemade artisan bread rising in the kitchen, I just finished making bruschetta and pesto, both with produce from my patio garden. I get up early on weekends and run about a dozen miles (literally) then hightail it to the farmer's market. I'm a member of a CSA where I frequently go to pick my own fruits and vegetables. I also knit and drink smoothies made with local peaches and kale. And yes, I have a lot of time to think about myself while I'm in the kitchen or out on the running trail. I try to drown out some of those thoughts with NPR or country music, but let's face it, neither one of those things totally stop the vain, foolish, and futile thoughts that start running through my mind. Things like, "Do I really want to have kids? What if I gain weight? How can I raise kids, keep my career, maintain a clean house and cook delicious, homemade meals from scratch? Oh dear, I should have gotten local honey to use in that recipe. Is it worth it to exchange my cheap Club Pack of chicken breasts for expensive grass-fed chicken?"

I've been trying so hard to transform myself into this paragon of a physically fit, kale-smoothie drinking locavorian that I've stressed myself out. It's ridiculous how we women go to such great lengths to fit into our ridiculous molds. That is why Jessie's story is so refreshing. (more refreshing than a peaches n' kale smoothie)

I'm glad Jessie Knadler wrote this book and has been continuing the story in her blog (www.rurallyscrewed.com). I'm glad that a woman who didn't like babies had one and enjoyed it so much that she's having another. I'm glad she confessed to using formula. (because apparently when mom doesn't make enough milk, formula gets a hungry baby to shut up!)  I'm also glad that she's still canning, still raising chickens, and still married to her awesome husband.

And I am seriously craving some Papa Johns.

Book Review: Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

Gone Girl is another great poolside fiction read for the summer. The library classified the book as "Mystery" but I would call it more of a psychological thriller. It's not as mysterious as it is disturbing. The book is a portrait of human nature at its worst. Human depravity always makes for a good story and Gone Girl is no exception. It is riveting novel in which readers become onlookers to the disastrous results of marriage gone awry.

The story opens on the day that the protagonist's wife, Amy, goes missing. I sensed that it was not the husband's fault, but as the story progressed I became increasingly unsure. This is the story of two people who had become chronic liars. The book takes the reader through the events surrounding the incident and the days following while also telling the back-story of Nick and Amy's turbulent five-year marriage.

I read this novel primarily for entertainment. It doesn't have a deeply moral or philosophical message, just twists that kept me turning the pages. However, by providing a picture of a dysfunctional marriage, the book becomes a good reminder of what not to do in a relationship. Nick and Amy's relationship did not unravel on the day that she went missing. It started long before that, with little lies and tiny manipulative schemes. These little deceptions turned into larger ones; short silences became long stretches of isolation. As in any relationship, the longer Nick and Amy were married, the more they learned about one another's weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Their cruelty grows out of this knowledge as they begin to target each other's vulnerabilities. It is subtle and first, but the attacks grow deeper and more scarring as time passes.

In conclusion, Gone Girl is definitely an entertaining read because it appeals to that part of the psyche that guiltily derives fascination out of others' misfortune. Therefore, I'm keeping this review short because giving away too much would just take the fun out of reading the book!