Tell The Wolves I’m Home

I really wondered why people were always doing what they didn’t like doing. It seemed like life was a sort of narrowing tunnel. Right when you were born, the tunnel was huge. You could be anything. Then, like, the absolute second after you were born, the tunnel narrowed down to about half that size. You were a boy, and already it was certain you wouldn’t be a mother and it was likely you wouldn’t become a manicurist or a kindergarten teacher. Then you started to grow up and everything you did closed the tunnel in some more. You broke your arm climbing a tree and you ruled out being a baseball pitcher. You failed every math test you ever took and you canceled any hope of being a scientist. Like that. On and on through the years until you were stuck. You’d become a baker or a librarian or a bartender. Or an accountant. And there you were. I figured that on the day you died, the tunnel would be so narrow, you’d have squeezed yourself in with so many choices, that you just got squashed.

Frankly, I did not want to finish this book. I wished that I could read it forever. This is those types of books you read every night, each chapter a night. Sometimes, a page a night.

You can build a whole world around the tiniest of touches.

Slow and Mesmerizing.  Thanks to Tabitha Suzuma, who updated her facebook status that she is reading it, and I followed her. Not disappointed, but this is the book that made me respect the books more than I was doing. I searched more of the same line as of this book, but NO.
Time and your personal life affect which book you will like or dislike. Might be it was that time that made this book a huge support for me. Support I mean, like a peaceful space to rest. Like Harry Potter series.

The language is like the calm river, words flow in the ears and sound sweets. The sentences have the tone of a tired person who has forgotten that what energy feels like.


The sun kept on with its slipping away, and I thought how many small good things in the world might be resting on the shoulders of something terrible.


My mother gave me a disappointed look. Then I gave her one back. Mine was for everything, not just the sandwich.


You could try to believe what you wanted, but it never worked. Your brain and your heart decided what you were going to believe and that was that. Whether you liked it or not.


Greta and June has an uncle dying of AIDS. Uncle Finn is a great artist, and popular too. He paints June and Greta before he died. After his death, June gets a message from Toby, Finn’s partner. June does not know him, but he is the only person who shares her grief. June is more affected by the death of her uncle as she was the one who spent the most of the time with him. She was the introverted one.


If my life was a film, I’d have walked out by now.


I stared hard, trying to find a pattern. Thinking if I kept looking hard enough, maybe the pieces of the world would fit back together into something I could understand.


With stories of Finn, their friendship develops. June found out the relationship of Toby and Finn, her mother’s rejection of this relation and more stories of Finn’s childhood. She starts realizing that she does not know her uncle that much. On the other side, she and her sister Greta, once extremely close are now parting. The absence of communication between them starts creating a void.

She was wired into my heart. Twisted and kinked and threaded right through.

It is a story of two sisters, lost the link because of multi-layers of jealousy, love, affection, attention and secrets, same as Finns and his sister. But June and Greta fills up the void, by forgiving each other for the thing they did and not did, and her mother too asks for forgiveness from Toby who she did not treat well when Finn was alive and blamed for his death.

Maybe you had to be dying to finally get to do what you wanted.

I fidgeted around with the puzzle pieces for a while longer, but I wasn’t lucky. Nothing seemed to fit without a whole lot of work.

Then I had this thought: What if it was enough to realize that you would die someday, that none of this would go on forever? Would that be enough?

The best way both sisters communicate is by drawing on the last painting of the Finn. When the mother found out, she starts doing it too. By ruining the painting they repair their family.

It was the first novel of Carol Rifka Brunt, hard to believe, well, I am still waiting for anything new from her.  The way she portrayed the 80s era, the nonsense people believed about AIDS, a girl who does not mix well, and another girl who is missing something is a delight to read. She did it at the first attempt, and not just did it, but she did it in a way an experienced person would do.

The bed was warm and ordinary and perfect, and it had been such a long, long day. Probably the longest day of my life. I felt like I had proof that not all days are the same length, not all time has the same weight. Proof that there are worlds and worlds and worlds on top of worlds, if you want them to be there.

You understand June, that is the power of the book, you understand her anxiety, her incapability to participate in the crowd, she wears long skirts to school and enjoys Mozart’s Requiem with her uncle. She likes to talk long talks but stammer while doing hi-hello in parties. You understand all this because the author tells you how it is like. Analogies work magic in the book.


That’s what being shy feels like. Like my skin is too thin, the light too bright. Like the best place I could possibly be is in a tunnel far under the cool, dark earth. Someone asks me a question and I stare at them, empty-faced, my brain jammed up with how hard I’m trying to find something interesting to say. And in the end, all I can do is nod or shrug, because the light of their eyes looking at me, waiting for me, is just too much to take. And then it’s over and there’s one more person in the world who thinks I’m a complete and total waste of space.
The worst thing is the stupid hopefulness. Every new party, every new bunch of people, and I start thinking that maybe this is my chance. That I’m going to be normal this time. A new leaf. A fresh start. But then I find myself at the party, thinking, Oh, yeah. This again.
So I stand on the edge of things, crossing my fingers, praying nobody will try to look me in the eye. And the good thing is, they usually don’t.


…there’s just something beautiful about walking on snow that nobody else has walked on. It makes you believe you’re special, even though you know you’re not.


Nothing had changed. I was the stupid one again. I was the girl who never understood who she was to people.


One of the best book in the market for people who like slow books and grief surviving theme.  Backdrop or I must say that driving this story is a disease, and the illiteracy of people about it that time.

It will make you realize that why people like books. Might be you will fall for it too.

Quote Page of the book : I had no idea how greedy my heart really was.

Goodreads : Tell The Wolves I’m Home | Carol Rifka Brunt

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