I loved this book from beginning to end. 
 The ability of the author to convince me of an epic love within a matter of pages was thoroughly impressive. 
 Time travel books can usually fall into two pitfalls: lack of character development and/or too much focus on the hows and whys of time travel. This book avoided both. The story unfolds artfully, giving you just enough information at every point to force you to look forward and backward in time to piece everything together. 
 If you can tell by reading my past reviews, I have a slight obsession with the idea of memory. And this book didn't let me down. Henry's ability to time travel is mostly based on memory and his own experiences in life. I was afraid there was going to be a lot of "shock value" time travel, forcing Henry to be in random places to witness famous events or meet famous people. Instead, you spend the entire book immersed in Henry and Clare's love for each other. 
 My favorite quotes (with the disclaimer that the whole is much much greater than the parts): 
 "[S]ome people, me included, believe that punk is just the most recent manifestation of this, this spirit, this feeling, you know, that things aren't right and that in fact things are so wrong that the only thing we can do is to say Fuck It, over and over again, really loud, until someone stops us." 
 "I dream that Clare and I are walking through a museum...We look at the paintings, but they aren't really paintings, they're poems, poems somehow given physical manifestation. 'Look,' I say to Clare, 'there's an Emily Dickinson,' The heart asks pleasure first: And then excuse from pain... She stands in front of the bright yellow poem and seems to warm herself by it...she is standing before a poem, a tiny white poem tucked into a corner. She is weeping. As I come up behind her I see the poem: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. 
 Love After Love 
 The time will come 
 when, with elation, 
 you will greet yourself arriving 
 at your own door, in your own mirror, 
 and each will smile at the other's welcome, 
 and say, sit here. Eat. 
 You will love again the stranger who was your self. 
 Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 
 to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 
 all your life, whom you ignored 
 for another, who knows you by heart. 
 Take down the love letters from the bookself, 
 the photographs, the desperate notes, 
 peel your own image from the mirror. 
 Sit. Feast on your life. 
 -Derek Walcott 
 (poem at beginning of book)