Sometimes I review a book the moment I finish it. Fresh details, sharp recollections. Other times I like to wait, let a book seep into me and become something—part me, part what was on the page. I chose to do the latter with The Smell of Other People’s Houses.

What lingers long, long after reading is a feeling of compassion, gentle sadness mixed with humor, longing. I want to go to this far flung “exotic” place, because it felt so familiar, so comfortable in its uniqueness, known. I felt at home in Hitchcock’s world, understood and understanding. I felt myself in her characters. I am the girl who can’t trust goodness. I am the boy who needs to run away. 

The mark of a powerful book is its capacity to change the reader. I felt understood, and yes, changed.