"There are years that ask questions and years that answer." 
 Every now and then I read a book that feels, start to finish, like walking through an art gallery. This is one of those rare books. 
 Poetry in novel form, this arrested coming-of-age story is bursting with a metaphoric use of language. Told as a tale recounted to a friend, it vividly conveys the life (and love) of woman named Janie. In its own way it ebbs and flows, weaves and threads, breathes and rasps. It is the stuff of early 19th-century folklore, yet it is wholly believable and candidly compelling. And the prose...*shiver* Oh, the prose. 
 "It is so easy to be hopeful in the daytime when you can see the things you wish on. But it was night, it stayed night. Night was striding across nothingness with the whole round world in his hands . . . They sat in company with the others in other shanties, their eyes straining against cruel walls and their souls asking if He meant to measure their puny might against His. They seemed to be staring at the dark, but their eyes were watching God." 
 I'll admit up front, this may not be to everyone's taste. The heavy Southern vernacular can make the phrasing (the dialogue in particular) feel a bit stubbly before the mind eventually adjusts to it. My advice? Relax and let it happen. The language is almost a character unto itself--suffusing cultural heart and insight into what would be the third generation removed from slavery. And it's a character well worth getting to know. 
 For this reader, the most stand-out scenes took place in the final 1/3rd of the book. There the pacing picks up, along with the intensity--both action-based and emotional. At one point the author describes the effects of a hurricane on the Florida everglades, producing such an engrossing scene she somehow grants unforgettable life to the inanimate. 
 The ending is bittersweet yet satisfying. The narrative wraps up as Janie finishes her retelling to her friend, casting a look back at a lifetime of personal growth and hard-earned self-awareness. Janie loses much, but at long last finds her voice--and perhaps her peace as well. 
 "Love is like the sea. It's a moving thing, but still and all, it takes its shape from the shore it meets, and it's different with every shore." 
 Personal Note: In researching the author, I'm more than a little heartbroken to learn that Zora Hurston was never truly recognized in her time, nor well compensated for her work. She died essentially penniless and was buried in an unmarked grave. 
 It's said that Zora had the gift "of walking into hearts." This I can believe. She may be long since passed on, but through her writing, she's managed to walk into mine. Thank you, Zora.