Tell the Wolves I'm Home

I've been in somewhat of a reading slump lately. In the month since I've been home from the island--plus, actually, the week before I left--I have started only four books and finished just two. Normally I can knock off double that in a week. No images have danced off the pages, no plot lines have pulled in me. I just haven't found anything that, as my emotionally unstable ninth grade English teacher would say, "speaks to my truth." That is, until I started Carol Rifka Brunt's debut novel Tell the Wolves I'm Home.

I won't say too much about it, mostly because I don't want to spoil it for anyone but also because as of this minute I'm only a third of the way through. What I will say, though, is that you won't need to read even a whole page to know that you never want it to end. I feel such kinship with the fifteen-year-old narrator, June, as she navigates her life after the death of her beloved uncle. Her observations are mature and poignant, and her sadness is so raw that at times I feel like I shouldn't be reading, like I should look away, like she'll only work through her heartbreak if I close the book and leave her alone for a while.

There are countless passages that I read twice, even three times. This one was particularly meaningful for me because I identify so closely with the way June approaches the world:

"Of course, I was relieved that the party was canceled. It wasn't only the shy thing, the total social retardation. It was more than that. I wasn't interested in drinking beer or vodka or smoking cigarettes or doing all the other things Greta thinks I can't even imagine. I don't want to imagine those things. Anyone can imagine things like that. I want to imagine wrinkled time, and forests thick with wolves, and bleak midnight moors. I dream about people who don' t need to have sex to know they love each other. I dream about people who would only ever kiss you on the cheek."

I love this paragraph for about twelve different reasons. I love how well June knows herself and how comfortable she is with her identity. I love that she is clearly the type of person who thinks long and hard before she speaks, who knows more than she'll ever let on. Above all, though, I love that her mind inhabits the wildest of places. I love that she envisions a world nearly identical to the one in my own mind.

I strongly encourage everyone to procure a copy of this book at once.