Things break all the time. Glass, and dishes, and fingernails. Cars and contracts and potato chips. You can break a record, a horse, a dollar. You can break the ice. There are coffee breaks and lunch breaks and prison breaks. Day breaks, waves break, voices break. Chains can be broken. So can silence, and fever.
For the last two months of my pregnancy, I made lists of these things, in hopes that it would make your birth easier.
It wasn’t until weeks later, when you were here, that I remembered what had awakened me that night: fault lines. These are the places where earth breaks apart. These are the spot where earthquakes originate, where volcanoes are born. Or in other words: the world is crumbling under us; it’s the solid ground beneath our feet that’s an illusion.
Jodi Picoult’s writing style is unassuming but each word carries weight for the next one. And all together, in a chain, each sentence gives readers layers of complexity about the normalcy of life that cannot be viewed in black and white. There is a small lining of gray area where one must look and see all kind of questions of our own existence. And with that, we can relate to the characters as if we see ourselves as them. Her stories are relatable, and challenge us to think of our own values, be it social, moral, or ethical.