#393

All the Light We Cannot See won the Pulitzer and I can see why. It's remarkably crisp and captivating so far (I'm only halfway through). WWII-era stories really grab me because of my grandpa. But this has been more about love, to be clear, than war. The passage below, especially, knocked my socks off. It's beautifully written, powerfully written, and I guess in some ways it guiltily, but gratefully, struck me in a profound personal way as father to Megan. Yes, there is worry, but there is, indeed, a 'brightness' that is bulletproof and abiding and awesome, even on shitty, doubt-filled days, when the inner-critic is relentless. Thankfully, we have professionals to describe these feelings:

"There has always been a sliver of panic in him, deeply buried, when it comes to his daughter: a fear that he is no good as a father, that he is doing everything wrong. That he never quite understood the rules. All those Parisian mothers pushing buggies through the Jardin des Plantes or holding up cardigans in department stores – it seemed to him that those women nodded to each other as they passed, as though each possessed some secret knowledge that he did not. How do you ever know for certain that you are doing the right thing? There is pride, too, though – pride that he has done it alone. That his daughter is so curious and resilient. There is the humility of being a father to someone so powerful, as if he were only a narrow conduit for another, greater thing. That's how it feels right now, he thinks, kneeling beside her, rinsing her hair: as though his love for his daughter will outstrip the limits of his body. The walls could fall away, even the whole city, and the brightness of that feeling would not wane."
     — Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See