Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland is a tale in retrospect. A story about a painting, and the spirit of the girl that was captured in it. She stares out her painted window, her mending neglected on the table staring away from the what’s behind her, and away from the lives playing out in front her as her painting hangs on walls.

Each chapter is a story, each a compelling narrative leading into the next. Normally I find a constant shifting in point of view jarring, and I’ll put the book back. However, it fit so well as a progression of distinct narratives, I didn’t put it down. There is a curl of melancholy trailing through, a quiet twinge that pairs well with a pot of tea, and a bright lamp to read into the early morning.

I have book’s on my shelf that I’ve read a second time, some because I loved them so much, I wanted to visit my old friends, others I forgot entirely. I’ve not reread Girl in Hyacinth Blue, but it sits on my bookshelf, beside letters my sister sent from Boston, and a glance at it’s cover sends me to Amsterdam, to Oling, to Delfzjil, to Delft, and I am a little sad, and I brush my fingers along the spine, and I remember how I felt peering into those tiny fractions of lives that each of those narratives offered.

Thinking about the doleful tone of a Girl in Hyacinth Blue makes me curious how other people feel about mournful books? Does anyone have a book they love because it makes them sad?