There are only two books in recent memory that I've sobbed at the end of.
The first was on a flight from Melbourne to Wellington two years ago where I released a full-blown ugly cry of embarrassing proportions. I'm talking noise, snot, the works. The air hostess came to check on me, probably concerned I was having some kind of episode.
I'm thinking about that book now, and having a fresh rush of emotion. When I met the author a few months ago, I told her about my experience. I still think about it, I said, and it still makes me tear up. She nodded sagely. She'd heard this before. That book:
