The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah

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My love for this book, in many ways, mirrors Leni’s love for Alaska. Wild. That’s how I describe it all. When Kristin Hannah gets her hooks in you, she digs deep and holds on. I can only use Leni’s words to describe how I feel about this book. 

There was hurt between these people and her mother, hurt and regret and mistrust, but something softer, too.

And isn’t that what we crave in a story?

Even when sorrow is an unkind cavern between glacier-filled white mountains; fear is a tense glance across a kitchen table; shame is a bruise on a mother’s neck, rising slowly, bubbling up like a map of stars that burned out long ago—there’s hope in a spectacular, otherworldly beauty; healing in hands across scarred skin; a beginning in the middle—something unexpected and beautiful.

Just like Alaska itself, this book was beauty and horror. Savior and destroyer. There are a hundred ways to be lost and even more ways to be found. Leni didn’t know how Alaska would take hold of her, shape her.

I didn’t know it would all become mine, too; that I would reside there with her, where deep and abiding peace exists and the natural world speaks loudest—where a thing can be true and not the truth at the same time. I found I had glimpsed a world that lay beneath the surface of my own, and God help me, I can’t live anywhere else.