The Art of Disappearing, by Ivy Pochoda

Coming downstairs this morning, I was struck by the beauty of the morning sun falling on the novel I am enjoying, ‘The Art of Disappearing” by Ivy Pochoda. It occurred to me that a book can be a work of art in its own right, like a dead leaf or a puzzle piece, if you open your eyes to the light and the shape. So I did. I prefer this to listening to bad news and gloomy people. Gloom is everywhere.

So is beauty. I hope to go out of the world thinking of beauty. I hope to do that while I’m still in it also.