>That teenager grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. He grew until he was a grown-up man. He left home and got a house across town. But sometimes on dark nights the mother got into her car and drove across town. If all the lights in her son's house were out, she opened his bedroom window, crawled across the floor, and looked up over the side of his bed. If that great big man was really asleep she picked him up and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And while she rocked him she sang.
Is this good writing?
Daniel Torres
It's excellent, I would rate it 5/5 on Goodreads.
Brayden Ortiz
It's a children's book. A good one, but a children's book.
A decent way to introduce "the circle of life"/mortality.
Sebastian Barnes
>implying its being a children's book reduces its merit
Jason Walker
Jesus Christ. Beckett didn't write that. Although he does talk about mothers a lot...
Cooper Nguyen
You should post this with a picture of John Green next time, OP.
Caleb Gomez
It evokes a strange feeling of tenderness and sadness. I don't know what it is, but I like it.
Justin Roberts
I wasn't saying that. I'm saying children's books don't need to have "god-tier prose" or whatever the fuck to be good/valuable.
Evan Sullivan
Yes. Did you write this?
Jason Nguyen
That's only true when it comes to books for children as young as five though. If theyr'e ten or so they can start reading the good stuff
Justin Foster
No
Nathan Wood
>not finishing the meme trilogy before the age of nine
pleb.
Luis Lee
Jesus Christ didn't write that post . Although he does talk bullshit a lot...
Matthew Reyes
I agree with you, my good man. I apologize for the misunderstanding.
Jaxon Mitchell
Not a problem, anonabro. Sorry if my post came off as angry. Not my intention.
Levi Barnes
God that book is heartbreaking. I remember vividly my mother reading it to me when I was 4. Then, years later, I picked it up again but the images, those tender and soft-hearted memories that came up were cast in a horrifying light, something akin to dread and fear, not longing but a perverse melancholy. I almost threw up, because by then my mother had grown old and weary, her concern over my future had wrinkled her brow, and where the fine laugh-lines of her smile had hedged my fondest recollections, they now swelled to a grotesque mask.
