It just occurred to me that, without necessarily meaning to, I find myself rereading this book once a year. I'll go months without thinking about it, without thinking about anything related to it, and then one day I'll be driving and see a tired-looking pedestrian and I'll be back there with Jacob on the Devizes road, parched of throat and sore of foot and so hungry he won't even think about food. Then nothing will do but read those scenes again, and before I know it I'm in Winchester, I'm in London, I'm watching what infatuation and and anger and not a little madness can do to a person, and the kind of damage that person can do to those around him. Every time I finish this book I'm somehow simultaneously in love, and appalled, and exhausted and kind of afraid, and in awe, and I just never know what to do with myself. Except maybe for trying to get everyone I know to read it. Read it if you like love stories, even though this is not exactly a love story. Read it if you like war novels, even though this is not really a war novel. Read this book. No really. Please. I will thank you, and you will thank yourself.