Everyone has a different idea of what makes a good book. Ask around and you’re likely to get many different answers. The characters, plot, setting and even the skill of the writer can greatly affect how one views a book. For a person who values good characters, ones that they can bond with and relate to, they may love a book that another may find poorly written and dull.
For myself, reading has always been about the experience. There is beauty in all words, and even the most poorly written story can still move and stir the depths of one’s soul. A good book for me is one that can open a door to a new world, one that draws you in and makes you lose yourself within those pages. And when you flip to that final page, it is a book that can make your heart ache, whether it be with joy or sadness, anger or pride. A good book is one that stays with you, one that you think back on with the same fuzzy remembrance of a half recalled dream. For a time, you lived in that world, and while the details get lost and fade just like all good memories, you still remember the feeling.
Stardust was one of those books. As I finished the last page, I closed the book as I always do, but I did so delicately, as if too sudden a movement would chase away the feeling that it left me with. If ever magic did exist, I found it within the pages of this book. For a time, Stardust let me walk into a world that was so unlike my own, to taste and touch and smell of a dream. After I finished reading, I simply sat for a time and pondered the sunlight pouring through my window, listened to the far off sounds of traffic and the chirping of birds.
I felt magic, pure and fleeting, but for a time it was there and that’s all that matters.