I had the strangest experience with a novel. I just finished reading Let the Right One In by John Ajvide Lindqvist. I watched both films based on it without knowing they were novel adaptations. I’m thinking of doing a compare-the-movie-and-the-remake-with-the novel kind of post for my film blog. So I went backwards and read the original a very long time after watching the films.
I get suspicious about best sellers and usually avoid them (until they are no longer best sellers at least). But this was purely in the spirit of research so I let it happen. I let this one in, so to speak. I don’t know if it was because of this spirit of research or my cringing about best seller material or the fact that this is a novel in translation (the original is in Swedish) but it took me a good 200 pages or so before I could really begin to walk inside the world of the novel and get a good feel for all the characters and their entangling stories. Usually it takes me much less than that, maybe 50 pages max.
Once the ice finally broke, the grip of the novel was much stronger than expected. It was subtle like the understated love story in the center of it all. I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t realize I was falling for the story until I was well into the third act. And so it struck me harder than writing that I hit it off with right away. I am now in the throes of that sweet melancholy you get when you finish a novel you really enjoyed. Love at last sight, indeed.