The Invisible Bridge by Julie Orringer falls under the category of Big Thick Books, and boy was it a good one. This novel tells the story of a Hungarian Jew who moves to Paris in 1937 to study architecture right on the brink of World War II. It is sad and at points difficult to read, but an interesting and well written tale. In fact, at times I was worried about reading it right before I went to sleep, even though made-up science says reading calms you down and helps you sleep. Lies!
It must be really hard to name a book. This book was titled after one small reference that was not brought up again, but surely has symbolic meaning. I think I would fail miserably at writing book titles. I probably would have called this one The First Half Goes So Well, But It Gets Really Sad Later. I would have to use a fairly small font on the spine for this kind of verbose title, but since this was a Big Thick Book, it would have worked out ok.
Let’s add my title-writing to the list of why I don’t write books. (A reminder that the rest of the list includes: no ideas, no attention span.)
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