I first saw it on the shelf in Walmart; the pretty shade of blue caught my eye, but the title made me laugh. All the Light We Cannot See. Another one of those lame books with no substance? I picked it up anyway, because I was bored, and read the back cover. It was about some people back in World War II: a blind girl whose father built her a small scale model of their neighborhood in Paris, and a German boy who was obsessed with technology. It actually sounded kind of cool. But it’ll probably turn into some stupid love story, I thought, and put it back.

Months later, I thought about it again. They had it in the library. Why not? I put it on hold, and finally, in January, it came in.

I had never cried over a book before.

I teared up a little over The Giver; I was hung up on The Book Thief for two years (as a matter of fact, I still am still hung up on it). But a book has never changed my way of thinking like All the Light We Cannot See. It’s one of those books you can’t explain, but that doesn’t stop you trying. The ending was so perfect.

In addition to the story itself, the writing is brilliant. Anthony Doerr would take an explosion and draw it out – Saint-Malo would take forever to be demolished – and I loved that. I loved how he would write short, scientific things in Marie-Laure’s chapters; it showed her personality so well. Doerr described things in his World War II story that wouldn’t normally be there – the Russians, the radios, the museums, the treasure hunters. It was thoroughly unique and the most beautiful book I’ve ever read.