This book is not as beautiful. But it does make you feel good. It makes you want to go outside, head to the river, feel with your feet, all that stuff.
The feeling of being immortal, of being unbound, of being present. This book makes this evident more than any other book I've ever read. It may not contain Kingsolver's imagery, or Vonnegut's wit, or Green's infatuated-with-self(?) existential musings.
But it does capture this spirit, this energy. And there are times when we lack this energy- we resign to our fates, to our beds, to our mortality. And these are the times when not-so-beautiful but pretty-damn-straightforward books about wallflowers are desired and absolutely necessary.